»-»A\'as«AW«*"4.'.^-%i(rt!?ns''A!;:Xiv« .  ■ 


.\: 


^^'  STRUCTIO 

OOTH\M 


C)  f-> 


vmmmmmmmmmmmmBk 


mmiiiiiBiifinniii'iiiii 


^Ss 


TL'J 


i.ti49^    ^^^bTiEacfxi^yu^^ 


DUKE  UNIVERSITY 

LIBRARY 


The  Glenn  Negley  Collection 
of  Utopian  Literature 


/ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Arciiive 
in  2010  witii  funding  from 
Dul<e  University  Libraries 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/destructionofgotOOmill 


THE 


"n 


ESTRUCTION  of  GOTHAM. 


JOAQUIN    MILLER. 


FUNK     ."t     WA(JX.\T.LS. 

KEW   TOUK  :  ^      ,„  LONDON  : 

ISHG. 
10  AND   Vi  Vr.r  STREET.  44  FI.BET  STREET. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1886,  by 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS, 

In  the  Oflice  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington,  D.  O. 


U 


CO^TEN"TS. 


PllOI-OGUR 5 

CHAPTER  I. 
Ckossino  a  Fkuuy 11 

CHAPTER  II. 
Ix  THK  Gnr:\T  City 17 

CHAPTER   III. 
Madison  Squahk  at  Nioiit 27 

CHAPTER   IV. 
Repoutkks 32 

CHAPTER  V. 
An  Oi'KN  Hkakt 40 

CHAPTER   VI. 
An  Opkn  Hand 47 

CHAPTER  VII. 

A    Bmi  ICMIAN   AT    DlNNKU 57 

CHAPTER  VI II. 

POIU'OISE   AND   OTII KK   FlSHHS 68 

CHAPTER   IX. 
TiiK  Shadow  ok  a  Tuagkoy 74 

CIIAPTKR   X. 

A    KiKTII    .\ VENIK.    .\FTKKNOON 83 

CHAPTER    XI. 

"  PUI>TK(TI0N"' 93 


IV  CONTKNTS. 

PAOK 

CHAPTER  XII. 
I)owN-T(j\vx 107 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
"  A  Placuk  Si'ot" liy 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
Clinging  to  tuk  Wrecks 130 

CHAPTER   XV. 
In  a  Nkkvois  Statk i;}7 

CHAPTER   XVI. 
Ti!  i;  Man  "with  a  Closed  Hand 145 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
The  Uninvited  Ouept 153 

CHAPTER   XVIII. 
The  Ari'AiuTiON 103 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
"  The  Public" 173 

CHAPTER   XX. 
TwilkjhtStud.es 180 

CHAPTER   XXI. 
"  Wk.  the  Pf'.orLE. " 184 

CHAPTER   XXIT. 
Vkuy  TiUEi) TOO 

CHAPTER   XXIII. 
""WnosE  Child  is  This?" 197 

CHAPTER   XXIV. 
"Fike!" 20<5 


PROLOGUE. 


Twelve  Drunken  Wome)x  Sent  Up. 

Policeman  Wemeu  arraigned  before  Justice  O'  ReiUy,  in  the  Tombs 
Police  Court,  yesterday,  twelve  filthy-looking  women.  He  charged 
theui  all  with  drunkeuness 

Justice  O'lleilly  sentenced  them  to  the  Island  for  one  month. 

The  janitor  of  the  Tombs  sprinkled  carbolic  acid  about  the  room 
after  the  women  were  led  off  to  jail. — Evenimj  Tde<jram,  New  York, 
June  24. 

*  *  *  *  *  til  »« 

A  Baby  in  the  Police  Court. 

To-day,  when  the  car-driver,  R.,  arose  to  plead  drunkenness,  in- 
duced by  want  and  overwork,  in  palliation  of  the  crime  for  which  he 
was  to  bo  sentenced,  a  baby  voice  cried  out  from  down  in  the  dirty 
crowd  :  "  Oh,  mamma,  dar's  poor  papa  !  Papa,  tome  and  tiss  baby." 
But  "poor  papa"  was  sent  away  from  "baby"  fifteen  years,  for 
his  drunken  crime.  And  we  stop  here  to  wonder  where  and  what 
"  baby"  will  bo  when  he  comes  back  from  the  States  Prison  ? 


But  let  U3  not  multiply  these  daily  reports.  Tliese 
iirc  given  merely  as  an  example  of  the  life  here,  the  death 
here — the  death  of  soul  ;  the  death  of  body  and  of  souL 

These  two  examples  are  both  from  the  lowly  walks  of 
life — the  lowest,  perhaps. 

Let  us  now  take  two  from  the  higher  walks  of  life — the 
highest,  perhaps — and  then  you  ean  gue.-vs  fairly  well 
what  lies  between.  l>y  striking  the  highest  po.-^sible 
average  you  can  see  clearly  that  a  city  lies  here  in  the 
shadow  of  its  doom  ;  that  its  destruction  is  not  far  oil  if 
this  condition  of  things  long  prevails.     But  here  are  the 


a';*!;!!]! 


6  I'KOLOULE. 

two  examples  of  life  from  the  higher  walks.     "Wo  quote 
from  private  letters  : 

"  You  shoulil  have  come  to  the  great  dinner.  It  was  the  greatest 
affair  that  has  ever  been.  Kome,  in  her  pulmiest  days,  was  sur- 
passed in  every  particuhir.  It  was  a  great  mistake  for  you  to  have 
said  what  you  did  ;  for  besides  the  honor  and  the  remeuibran<;e  of 
the  gorgeous  event,  we  had  at  least  fifty  kinds  of  wines,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  brandies,  the  benedictiue.s,  the  liquors  of  all  names, 
nations,  and  cellars.  I  am  told  the  dinner  cost  $80,000.  The  Herald 
puts  it  at  a  round  hundred  thousand.  Read  its  ten-column  account 
of  it.  My  head  aches  too  much  to  write  more  now.  But  do  not 
speak  of  him  as  being  tight-fisted,  my  boy,  after  this  big  dinner." 
******** 

"  Dear  Sib  :  You  are  entirely  in  the  wrong  about  your  great-little 
man  '  Stone, '  of  Wall  Street.  His  habits  are  most  exemplary.  And 
if  he  has  got  hold  of  your  money  in  Wall  Street,  why  he  has  done  no 
more  than  you  or  any  other  man  would  have  done  with  his  money  if 
you  only  could  have  beaten  him.  No,  my  friend  ;  the  fact  is,  the 
little  giant  of  Wall  Street  has  more  money-brains  than  you  and  his 
other  enemies.  So  be  manly  enough  to  admit  it,  and  let  him  alone  ; 
for  he  has  his  load  in  life  to  bear  as  well  as  you  and  the  others. 
Do  you  think  it  any  easy  thing  to  take  care  of  fifty  railroads  and  fifty 
millions  of  dollars  ? 

"  It  is  not  an  easy  thing.  And  if  you  could  have  seen  his  face  to- 
day as  I  saw  it,  all  furrowed  over,  as  if  full  of  railroad  tracks,  hard, 
and  dry,  and  bloodless,  twitching  nervously  now  and  then  as  his 
bright  eyes  beamed  with  intense  excitement,  you  would  have  felt 
no  bitterness  at  all,  but  have  been  your  dear  old  self,  and  have  felt 
only  pity.  The  fact  is,  for  all  his  exemplary  and  well-ordered  life,  he 
is  far  from  well  in  body  or  in  mind.  He  is  compelled  to  have  con- 
stant recourse  to  artificial  stimulants  to  keep  up  and  not  fall  under 
the  great  load  under  which  he  stoops.  His  hand  trembles  sometimes 
as  if  he  had  an  ague.  And  what  wonder  ?  The  life  he  leads  is  too 
arduous.  It  is  unnatural,  and,  of  course,  he  must  resort  to  unnatural 
Biimulants  for  support. 

"  But  bear  in  mind  his  life  is  exemplary.  And  even  in  his  weakest 
moments  he  never  makes  a  spectacle  of  himself,  as  do  so  many  great 
men.  You  might  bo  with  him  all  day,  I  think,  and  never  once  see 
him  take  a  single  glass  of  l)randy  or  anything  of  the  kind  in  public. 
And  so,  whatever  his  life  is  or  has  been,  you  cannot  say  that  he  has 
set  a  bad  example  to  any  one.     But  as  his  life  is  unnatural  and  his 


I'KOLOCUK.  7 

nerves  constantly  strung  to  the  most  terrible  tension,  why  ho  must 
resort  to  opiates,  and  bavo  more  than  natural  support.  Yet  when  tbo 
enil  conies  —and  it  cannot  bo  very  far  oil — no  ouo  can  say  that  his 
lifo  was  not  cxonii>lary." 


Dear  and  in(lul<j:;cnt  reader,  from  the  foregoing  notes 
you  can  gather  tlie  argument  of  this  story,  1  think  ; 
motive  enough  surely  to  make  a  great  sketcli  of  ;  a  con- 
dition of  things  surely  to  challenge  the  pity  and  the  help 
of  every  brave  heart  and  strong,  clear  head  in  this  won- 
drous new  land  of  ours. 

The  great  city  lies  trembling,  panting,  quivering  in 
lier  wild,  white  heat  of  intoxication,  excitement,  mad- 
ness— drunken  and  devilish  pursuits  of  power,  pleasure, 
and  gold. 

It  is  the  old  story  of  the  destruction  of  one  whom  the 
gods  love.  Never  grew  a  city  so  great,  so  suddenly 
great.  And  her  glory,  her  greatness,  her  sudden  power 
and  splendor  have  made  her  mad.  She  is  drunk  ;  not 
ilrunk  entirely  with  drink,  but  she  is  drunk  with  riches 
and  with  the  love  of  pleasure.  Altogether,  she  is  madly, 
desperately  drunk. 

And  where  will  it  all  end  ?  Where  have  such  things 
always  ended  i  Nay,  do  not  turn  back  too  hastil}'  into 
history  fur  the  thousand  examples  there.  You  re- 
member Paris  i  her  twenty-tive  years  of  glory,  reckless- 
ness, irreligion,  ill-gotten  riches  ?  And  then  the  conlla- 
gration  ! 

In  conversation  with  Gambetta  soon  after  the  nnirder 
of  the  Bishops,  the  battles  in  the  graveyards,  where 
Parisians,  slain  by  Parisians,  lay  as  thick  on  top  of  the 
ground  as  under  it,  the  great  Dictator  told  me  that  the 
new  Paris  had  been  built  in  madnes.s,  ami  so  was  l)urned 
in  madness. 


371301 


8  ■  rUOLOGL'E. 

"  Bc'llcvillo,"  he  cried,  with  enerf;y,  "should  never 
luive  been  left  out  there  to  herself  !  Chumps  Eljsees 
should  never  have  been  permitted  to  exist  apart  from  the 
people  !  Tlie  two  should  have  been  mixed  up  together, 
so  that  the  poor  could  have  shared  the  cares  of  the  rich, 
and  the  rich  the  cares  of  the  poor," 

No  fable  of  -^sop  can  save  a  city  now  as  when  the 
people  of  Rome  went  out  and  left  the  politicians  behind. 

No  ;  the  people  will  not  go  out  of  the  cities  now  ;  for 
it  is  the  people  who  build  the  cities  ;  and  the  people  will 
])ossess  them.  If  either  class  is  compelled  to  retire,  it 
will  not  be  the  poor — the  People.  Here  in  this  won- 
derful city  you  have  all  the  wealth  at  one  end.  You 
have  all  the  poverty  at  the  other.  The  poor  are  in  the 
majority — '*  "We,  the  People  !"  The  distance  between 
the  rich  and  the  poor  is  not  great.  The  line  that  divides 
is  only  an  air  line,  that  may  be  crossed  or  erased  at  any 
moment. 

Hunger,  oppression,  drunkenness  ;  a  hundred  drunken 
men  ;  a  puff  of  smoke  !  The  end  !  In  this  story,  as 
you  follow  poor  "  Dot  "  in  her  flight  up  Broadway  and 
on  up  Fifth  Avenue,  pursued  by  the  red-faced  monster, 
you  must  keep  in  mind  this  condition  of  things  ;  also 
this  madness,  this  wild  fever-heat,  this  excitement,  this 
drunkenness,  where  men,  women — all  things  are  strung 
up  to  a  tension  that  is  terrible  to  bear. 

The  great  book  of  this  great  city  has  never  been  writ- 
ten. The  stream  of  life  here  has  been  too  swift  for 
any  mind  to  follow  or  depict  it  with  truth  and  pre- 
cision. 

This  desperate  pursuit  of  wealth,  this  constant  and 
prevailing  resort  to  stimulants,  even  by  the  most  "  exem- 
])lary,"  has  made  an  order  of  life  that  is  new  upon  earth. 
The  blood  in  men's  veins  is  at  fever-heat.     This  drives 


riiULOGUE. 


tlicm  on  to  the  consumnuition  of  deeds  that  liavc  no 
parallel,  that  have  had  no  historian. 

l^>nt  I  have  kept  back  this  ui^ly  and  offensive  beast  in 
the  dark  ])lace8  as  far  as  possible.  We  catch  a  breath  of 
the  f  nnics  of  alcohol  only  as  we  hastily  pass  np  and  down 
Fifth  Avenue  now  and  then,  and  that  is  about  all. 
More  than  that  might  offend  just  now,  and  mar  the  force 
of  the  story.  But  I  am  willing  that  you  shall  understand 
very  clearly,  and  from  the  lirst,  and  all  the  time,  that  the 
paragraph  at  the  liead  of  this  Prologue  is  the  argument 
and  the  excuse  for  this  work. 

And  if  you  will  now  turnback  a  page  and  read  it  over 
you  will  see  clearly  that  a  story  devoted  entirely  to  these 
twelve  women  would  not  only  be  unpleasant,  but  would 
be  a  work  entirely  fruitless  for  good.  I  will  merely  men- 
tion the  fact  that  they  were  wives  of  laborers,  car- 
drivers,  freight-handlers,  and  so  on.  Thoy  were  not  im- 
moral women.  One  of  them,  I  learned,  had  once  been 
a  teacher  in  the  public  schools. 

The  point  is  to  begin  at  the  bottom  and  make  it  tinally 
impossible  for  such  things  to  transpire  in  the  light  of  the 
sun,  here  in  the  grandest  commercial  centre  of  the  world. 

The  like  of  such  scenes  must  and  shall  be  nuide  impos- 
sible, though  we  arc  dust  when  it  is  done. 

****** 

And  now,  as  you,  after  the  haste  and  fashion  of  the 
time,  run  swiftly  through  these  pages,  1  implore  you 
look  a  little  carefully  at  the  character  of  the  man  with 
the  hundred  and  more  miUions  of  money.  Look  at  the 
man  with  the  v;ust  smile  and  the  big,  red,  round  hands 
that  holds  them  so  tightly  chusped,  as  if  he  feared  that 
one  of  these  hundred  millions  of  dollare  should  escape 
from  his  big,  fat  hands  and  fall  to  the  ground. 

Look  at  him.     Think  of  him.     Is  he  happy  i 


10  PROLOGUR. 

Look  at  him  at  tliu  last,  when  liu  sits  in  liis  great 
l)ro\vn-stoiie  palace,  all  alone,  after  the  grandest y<^^  that 
was  ever  given. 

Sec  him  sitting  there  all  alone  with  his  glass.  See 
him  lift  his  gUuss  to  his  lips,  and  set  it  down  untasted,  for 
some  one  lias  come  and  sat  down  in  the  cliair  opposite, 
and  is  looking  him  in  the  face.  Some  one  has  come  and 
sat  down  in  the  chair  opposite,  and  also  sets  another  sort 
of  glass  down  on  the  table  between  them — Death,  with 
his  honr-glass  ! 

Oh,  the  agony  of  that  time  !  The  terror  of  that  man  ! 
Happy  ? 

Well,  his  life  and  his  death  ought  to  be  of  some  use 
to  the  world.  1  think  that  God  meant  it  as  an  example, 
to  show  how  worthless  this  wealth  is  which  we  are  all  so 
drunken  and  mad  about. 

And,  if  you  please,  look  at  the  nervous,  treacherous 
little  giant  of  Wall  Street  as  you  hasten  through  these 
pages. 

You  do  not  see  much  of  him,  for  he  is  so  unpleasant. 
Like  the  twelve  women  at  the  head  of  this  prologue,  he 
is.as  unpleasant  in  soul  as  they  in  body. 

If  he  should  walk  through  these  pages  much  I  would 
have  to  sprinkle  them  with  carbohc  acid,  as  the  janitor 
did  the  Tombs. 

But  you  get  a  good  glimpse  of  his  back  as  he  leaves 
the  stage  and  flies  away  from  the  face  of  man  in  his  de- 
lirium and  madness.  A  strange  drunkenness  is  this  of 
his,  a  silent,  sullen  drunkenness  ;  a  drunkenness  of  soul 
as  well  as  of  body,  as  if  his  dark,  desperate,  despicable 
little  soul  had  grown  dnnik  in  the  blood  of  the  innumer- 
able victims  he  plundered  and  finally  drove  to  suicide. 


THE  DESTllUCTJON  OF  GOTHAM. 


CHAPTER  I. 


CROSSING   A    FERRY, 


One  May  edging  on  June,  and  late  in  tlic  afternoon, 
coming  in  against  the  tide  of  people  pouring  out,  a  dark- 
eyed,  shy,  and  timid  girl,  Avitli  a  hesitating  air,  a  face 
lifted,  tired  and  helpless,  toward  the  great  city  beyond 
the  river  before  her,  stepped  on  the  ferry-boat  as  it  ground 
against  the  groaning  and  swaying  timbers.  Slie  looked 
back  over  her  shoulder  as  if  she  feared  she  might  1)0  pur- 
sued ;  or,  maybe,  it  was  habit  nuidc  her  look  back  and 
about  in  a  weary  and  troubled  way. 

Unhappy  people  are  always  looking  back.  They  look 
wearily  back,  as  if  they  had  Ictst  something,  left  some- 
thing behind.     Happiness  ? 

This  dark-eyed,  silent  chihl — for  she  was  only  a  child 
— had  been  seen  Ijy  some  of  the  men  nearly  all  day  hover- 
ing around  the  wharf,  not  (piite  decided  to  cross,  yet  not 
daring  to  turn  back. 

She  had  been  seen  also  by  an  old  monster,  a  woman 
with  a  foreijjn  accent  and  a  breath  smellimr  of  jrarlic  and 
gin.  As  for  this  creature  with  the  batl  breath  and  a  dirty 
basket  on  her  arm,  all  men  who  knew  New  York  well 
knew  her  ;  and  tliey  knew  lier  business  perfectly,  too. 

This  wonderful  city — this  marvellous  city  hereby  the 


12  THE    l^ESTULXTIOX    OF    GOTHAM. 

sea — seems  to  me  like  the  sudden  blossom  and  flower  of  a 
germ  planted  fur  buck  in  the  dawn  of  time.  Rome  has 
her  certain  and  definite  days  of  carnival.  This  wonder- 
ful new  city  of  New  York  luis  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
live  days  of  mad,  maddening,  wild,  and  delirious  carnival 
every  year. 

Her  merriment  is  a  type  of  madness.  She  never  rests. 
She  never  sleeps.  She  has  not  slept  since  the  days  of 
her  birth  and  baptism.  Even  her  people  scarcely  seem 
to  sleep.  They  run  forward  day  and  night,  night  and 
day,  until  each  one,  in  the  impetuous  rushing,  comes  sud- 
denly to  the  end  of  his  road,  and  so  falls  headlong  in  his 
grave.  And  falling  so,  rushing  forward  so,  you  some- 
times see,  in  the  twilight,  in  the  dusky  evening  of  the 
carnival,  that  two  are  rushing,  running,  hand  in  hand. 
The  one  falls  suddenly  ;  the  hand  lets  go  ;  the  kind  earth 
closes  her  lips  and  says  no  word  ;  and  the  next  year  the 
place  of  the  grave,  the  face  of  the  dead — all  are  for- 
gotten. Forgotten,  because  in  the  place  of  the  one  that 
has  perished,  however  beautiful,  however  brave,  gifted, 
good,  ten  others  have  poured  in  from  the  countless  forces 
of  the  earth  ;  ten  others,  all  equally  brave,  good,  gifted, 
beautiful. 

Let  us  cross  the  moat  which  surrounds  this  mighty 
citadel  and  take  part  in  the  splendor,  the  glory,  the  de- 
light, the  mad  revelry,  the  misery  there  ;  for  to  know 
this  city  is  to  know  the  universe.  All  Europe,  all  Asia, 
all  Africa,  the  whole  wide  earth  has  sent  up  her  best, 
worst,  weakest,  strongest — ay,  most  wicked,  wild,  and 
reckless  people  to  the  building  of  this  new  Babel. 

This  ditch,  surrounding  this  stronghold — ^this  island, 
which  has  gold  enough  heaped  upon  it  to  sink  it — has 
many  drawbridges  crossing  it  from  many  ways.  Over 
these    iigly  ferries,    these   wooden   drawbridges,    cross- 


CROSSING   A    FKUUV.  13 

ing  the  ^roiit  inoat,  iiilllloiis  of  people  pour  inces- 
santly. 

Those  who  enter  here  do  not  all  return.  Tlio  places 
of  the  dead  must  be  supplied,  filled,  and  the  rush  for- 
ward must  be  kept  uj).  It  is  a  battle  in  which  ten  step 
forward  to  take  the  place  of  the  one  who  has  fallen.  It 
has  been  said  that  in  this  city  no  one  is  born  now  ;  and 
this  is  largely  true. 

But  let  us  look  after  the  beautiful  little  waif,  this  leaf 
that  has  fallen  from  the  tree  and  is  being  borne  on,  down 
the  willing  stream.  Once  having  set  eyes  on  the  beau- 
tiful girl  who  hesitated  and  hardly  dared  enter  the  great 
city,  the  monster  did  not  lose  sight  of  her.  She  sat  down 
licr  basket  and  sat  herself  down  finally. 

She  could  afford  to  wait.  By  and  by  the  tired  and 
frightened  child,  who  had  evidently  walked  in  from  the 
country  to  the  river,  went  into  the  waiting-room  to  buy 
a  cake. 

The  old  woman  followed,  set  down  her  basket  close  by 
her  side  as  she  stood  at  the  counter,  and  also  bougbt  a 
cake.  Then  she  bought  two  boiled  eggs.  One  of  these 
she  offered  to  the  lone,  hungry,  and  frightened  child. 

The  poor  thing  was  alxnit  to  take  this  gratefully  ;  she 
had  only  three  pennies  remaining.  But  lifting  her  great, 
beautiful  Southern  eyes  to  the  red  and  vicious  face  be- 
fore her,  she  dropped  her  half- reaching  hand  with  a  cry 
of  dismay  and  hurried  away. 

She  heard  a  low  chuckle,  a  laugh  as  a  demon  might 
laugh,  as  she  left  the  place  and  stood  out  close  by  the 
wharf,  as  near  the  edge  as  possible. 

The  boat  was  coming  in.  A  sea  of  white  faces  was 
lifted  before  her  and  shone  above  the  foamy  water  in  the 
fading  sun  :  and  standing  there,  she  did  not  dare  turn 
about.     She  feared,  she  felt,   she  did  not  sec,  but  she 


14  TIIK    DESTUL'CTIOX    OF   GOTHAM. 

knew  tluit  tlio  old  wonuiii  had  followed  her,  was  close  at 
her  side.  What  did  she  want  with  that  basket  {  It  was 
a  market-basket.  But  it  was  not  market  time.  Yet  she 
liad  some  vegetables,  some  stale  fniit,  and  some  few  bad 
eggs  in  the  basket. 

When  arrested,  which  was  not  nnfreqiiently,  she  was 
in  the  habit  of  exhibiting  this  miserable  stuff  and  pro- 
fessing to  the  court  that  she  was  a  poor  but  honest  board- 
ing-house keeper  who  went  across  tlie  river  and  hung 
about  the  ferries  in  order  to  buj  cheai^er  of  the  farmers. 

Feeling,  knowing,  as  said  before,  that  she  was  pur- 
sued, this  girl,  more  frightened  now  than  before,  appalled 
even  at  the  step  she  had  taken,  the  mighty  city  before 
her,  the  monster  behind  her,  she  stood  in  the  midst  of 
the  crowd,  trembling  like  a  leaf. 

Two  liandsome,  fashionable,  sleek,  and  gentlemanly 
men  turned  back  with  apparent  unconcern. 

They  had  seen  the  girl's  face.  That  w\is  enough. 
They  understood  the  whole  thing  well  when  they  saw  the 
old  woman. 

They  were  not  particularly  bad  men.  They  were  New 
Yorkers.     Let  us  do  them  justice. 

Either  of  these  men,  had  they  seen  this  girl — even  the 
old  monster  pursuing  her — thrown  down  in  the  street 
or  in  any  way  at  a  grave  physical  disadvantage  would 
have  given  a  hand  of  help  or  a  bit  of  silver,  and  then 
passed  on  and  forgotten  the  whole  affair.  But  in  the 
moral  fight  of  life  they  had  no  help  to  give. 

They  did  not  understand  such  a  thing  as  that.  In  the 
rush  and  roar  of  the  great  carnival  their  ears  had  been 
made  deaf. 

They  had  their  eyes  only  ;  and  they  saw  that  she  was 
strangely,  pitcously  beautiful.  Some  others  saw  all  this 
too.      They  understood  it  all  too.      They  quietly  smiled 


CROSSING    A    FKUUV.  lo 

at  cacli  other  mid  G;avc  tlic  field  nj)  to  the  two  liandsoinc 
young  men  who  liad  iirst  set  out  in  the  chase.  Sucli  is 
tliis  wonderful  city. 

It  was  a  strange,  a  stirring  scene,  as  tlie  hoat  drew  out 
across  the  Hudson.  The  great  city  seemed  to.  rise  uj) 
in  its  strength  and  splendor  as  the  sun  sank  in  the 
west. 

Away  to  the  right,  down  the  l)URy  ])ay,  ships  of  far- 
oif  lands  went  to  and  fro,  seeking  the  golden  fleece  of 
commerce  ;  great,  stately  ships,  with  a  thousand  happy 
souls,  came  sailing  in  from  Europe  ;  little  steam-tugs  shot 
in  and  out,  vicious  and  piratical-looking  ;  revenue  ships 
sent  to  lay  tribute  on  the  strangers — the  weary  travellers 
coming  to  their  rest — forbidding  the  landing  of  those  who 
thought  to  come  to  a  land  of  liberty,  laying  tribute  on 
all  who  come  to  our  white  sea-doors  seeking  peace  and 
the  right  ;  thousands  of  men  with  officers  over  them, 
with  oaths  fashioned  to  be  broken,  bribes  in  one  hand 
and  Ijibles,  "  greasy  with  oaths,"  in  the  other  ;  and  so 
all  these  things  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  the  silver  Hud- 
son sliding  to  the  ocean  ;  the  city  rising  in  glory  in  the 
east  as  the  sun  settled  in  the  west  ;  the  spluttering  and 
splasliing  ferry-boat,  rocking,  groaning,  sighing,  almost 
crying  out  with  pain,  drew  hastily  in  toward  New  York. 

One  of  the  two  handsome  young  men  who  had  turned 
back  with  his  friend  to  follow  the  dark  eyes  and  Madonna 
face  hurriedly  approached  the  old  hag  and  thnist  some 
money  in  her  hand. 

He  was  quick  about  it,  but  not  quick  enough  to  escape 
the  eye  of  an  officer  set  to  watch  such  as  she.  Instantly 
the  otKecr  approached  the  two  men.  But  only  one  of 
them  fled. 

The  other  young  man  coolly  and  quietly  thrust  hi.s 
thumb  and  forelinger  in  his  left  vest-pocket,  let  his  liund 


IC,  TFIH    DKSTllUCTlOX    OF    OOTIIAM. 

fall  down  in  close  fellowship  with  that  of  the  officer's,  and 
then  he  passed  on  unmolested. 

On  these  boats  jou  sometimes  see  another  class  of  men. 
Thej  are  pale,  thin,  sometimes  starved-lookiiig.  They 
say  little.  They  are  not  there  to  talk,  but  to  write. 
What  they  see,  just  what  they  see — no  more,  no  less — 
will  be  set  down  in  the  papers.  They  are  reporters, 
teachers  in  the  great  University  of  Life. 

One  of  these  newspaper  men,  a  timid,  tired,  and  sensi- 
tive-looking man  of  middle  age,  pale,  impractical,  a  poet 
with  his  wings  trailing  in  the  wet  and  mire,  saw  all  this  ; 
saw  man  and  monster  exchange  glances  ;  saw  that  all  was 
well  understood,  and  that  in  the  great  city,  in  the  next 
day's  carnival,  or  the  next — maybe  the  next  week,  next 
month,  certainly  some  time,  this  young  man,  this  New 
Yorker,  would  demand  and  receive  of  the  old  monster  an 
account  of  her  stewardshijx  But  let  us  follow  this  girl 
now  in  the  great  city. 


CHAPTER  II. 


IN    THE  GKEAT    CITY. 


It  is  estimated  that  every  day  hundreds  of  young 
women  enter  New  York  never  to  return.  More  than  as 
many  young  men,  also  strangers,  young,  eager,  am- 
bitious, pour  in  upon  tlie  wonderful  city  from  the 
Soutli,  the  East,  the  "West — from  tlie  four  parts  of 
the  world. 

The  girls  are  mostly  good  girls.  The  men  are  honest 
and  industrious  in  the  main.  They  have  left  poverty, 
obscui-ity,  ignorance — all  that  is  intolerable  to  pride  and 
6])irit  and  enterprise — behind  them.  This  is  the  temple 
of  fortune,  where  all  may  enter  and  implore  their  goddess. 

There  is  much  to  do  here  ;  money  to  be  had  for  honest 
labor  ;  a  world  to  see.  There  are  more  than  two  hun- 
dred thousand  women  at  work  here.  So  you  see  clearly 
there  is  no  shame  in  entering  the  great  city  for  a  young 
girl,  even  alone,  if  she  comes  here  to  work,  to  learn,  to 
earn  bread  for  those  she  loves  and  leaves  beliind. 

But  tlierc  are  many  motives.  Sometimes  a  poor  girl, 
disheartened  at  home,  heartsick  and  solitary  in  the  far- 
out  silence  of  the  rural  home,  sees  a  certain  newspaper, 
famous,  or  rather  infamous,  for  its  coai*se  and  suggestive 
"  personals, "  couched  in  language  she  does  not  (piite 
understand,  but  reads  as  one  reads  a  romance  or  listens 
to  the  story  of  Aladdin's  lamp. 

There  is  love  waiting  for  her  in  the  parks,  the  cool  and 
restful  places  ;  strong  and  handsome  men,  rich,  romantic 


18  THE    DKSTUUCTIOX    OF    GOTHAM. 

as  herself,  are  ready  to  receive  lier.  This  is  the  jncture 
as  she  sees  it.  She  is  quite  certain  she  can  protect  her- 
self ;  and  anyhow  she  will  have  seen  New  York — she 
will  have  seen  the  great  city,  whatever  comes  of  it. 

This  girl,  with  this  romantic  nature,  is  drawn  thus  into 
the  great  maelstrom. 

And  this  girl,  who  has  no  fixed  purpose  of  toil  and  no 
lasting  bravery  in  earnest  effort,  appears  on  the  surface. 
She  swims  for  a  day,  a  year,  sinks,  drowns,  dies.  She 
perishes  utterly  ;  and  her  name,  alas  and  alas  !  is  legion. 

The  pretty  child  whom  we  have  seen  enter  the  city 
was  not  quite  of  this  latter  class  ;  neither  Nvas  she  of  the 
former. 

Indeed,  there  are  many  more  reasons  than  the  general 
ones  just  given  why  a  young  and  beautiful  girl  enters  a 
city  alone.  Some  seek  it  to  hide.  Some  come  to  find 
friends.  This  one  was,  perhaps,  more  nearly  of  the  lat- 
ter class. 

A  wicked  smile  of  satisfaction  lit  up  the  old  woman's 
face  as  she  saw  the  girl  set  foot  on  shore.  She  was  now 
in  the  great  city,  on  the  monster's  own  ground,  in  her 
trap.  She  would  take  her  own  time  to  lay  hand  upon  her 
now.  She  had  been  half  afraid  all  the  way  the  girl 
would  turn  back  to  the  other  side  ;  but  now  there  was 
no  turning  back. 

The  old  woman  could  see  from  the  red  stains  of  soil  on 
the  girl's  worn  shoes  that  she  had  walked  a  long  way  from 
her  home,  wherever  that  home  may  have  been.  There- 
fore she  must  be  very  weary,  and  could  not  go  far.  She 
would  follow  her  closely  ;  offer  her  hospitality  ;  take  her 
to  a  boarding-house  hard  by. 

Exchanging  a  glance  of  perfect  understanding  with  tlic 
handsome  young  man  v/ho  had  given  her  the  money  and 
now  stood  leisurely  biting  off  the  end  of  a  cigar  prepani- 


IN   TnE   OllKAT    CITY.  19 

tory  to  Hii!;liting  it  and  rctuniin<^  witli  liis  companion 
across  the  ferry,  slic  hoisted  lier  old  1)asket  up  a  little 
liigher  on  lier  big,  fat  arm,  and  stepped  briskly  on  after 
the  beautiful  girl. 

The  woman,  who  gave  some  signs  of  a  knowledge  of 
good  society,  came  quickly  on,  turned  sharp  across  the 
girl's  way  as  she  sped  on,  her  great,  honest  eyes  to  the 
ground,  and  crossed  her  path  sharply  on  the  pavement. 

The  poor  child  looked  up,  saw  the  leering  face,  and 
instinctively  and  instantly,  with  a  half-suppressed  cry  of 
alarm,  left  the  pavement  and  fled  across  the  street. 

She  sped  up  the  street  on  the  other  side  as  fast  as  her 
feeble  limbs  could  carry  her,  till  (piite  out  of  sight.  A 
low  chuckle  of  surprise,  not  unnn'xed  with  admiration, 
was  all  that  escaped  the  old  woman.  She  did  not  at- 
tem})t  to  follow  her  at  the  moment  any  farther.  She 
saw  that  she  had  been  inistaken,  and  was  glad. 

Here  was  a  real  prize — one  worth  winning.  She  would 
have  her  yet,  of  course.  It  was  only  a  question  of  time 
and  care.' 

She  turneda  aside  into  an  alley,  set  down  her  basket, 
fumbled  in  her  greasy  pocket  for  a  greasy  bunch  of  keys, 
unlocked  the  greasy  door,  took  up  her  greasy  basket  and 
entered,  slamming  the  door  hastily  behind  her. 

The  girl  pushed  on,  confused,  frightened,  lost  in  the 
wilds  of  civilization  !  Each  step  forward  bore  her  oidy 
deeper  in  the  heart  of  this  new  and  to  her  almost  terrible 
wilderness. 

At  last  she  came  to  the  great,  throbbing,  pulsing  artery 
of  the  mighty  city. 

This  w;us  an  impassable  river.  It  had  been  impassable 
to  many  a  stouter  heart  than  hers  at  a  time  like  this, 
when  all  the  world  seemed  i)ouring  up  Broadway  to  the 
upper  city. 


20  TlIK    DESTUUCTION'    OF    GOTHAM. 

Tlie  side^valk  was  a  rnsliing  river  of  liumanity,  flowing 
upward  and  on,  with  thundering  vehicles,  which  packed 
and  blocked  the  strong,  roaring  street. 

This  stream,  this  rushing  river  of  humanity,  caught  her 
up  and  bore  her  on  ;  and  in  this  she  found  a  singular 
and  fearful  satisfaction.  She  would  at  least  be  hidden  in 
the  midst  of  the  sweeping,  surging  stream  from  tlie  mon- 
ster whom  she  felt  was  still  pursning  her. 

To  one  accustomed  to  cities  and  strange  forms  and 
faces  all  this  seems  absurd.  To  one  who,  familiar  only 
with  woods,  wilds,  the  face  of  nature,  comes  suddenly, 
weak,  worn,  frightened,  upon  a  great  city  with  its  surg- 
ing crowd  of  humanity  escaping  from  the  day's  toil,  it 
is  perfectly  unintelligible. 

This  girl  did  not  know  whether  or  not  she  was  being 
borne  on  in  the  right  direction  ;  yet  she  could  not  have 
asked  any  one  of  the  dense  crowd  if  it  had  been  to  save 
her  life.  And  would  any  one  have  stopped  to  answer  if 
she  had  ? 

Yes,  she  had  a  vague  purpose,  a  place  to  go  to  ;  some 
one  to  seek — her  cousin,  Ilattie  Lane,  one  whom  she 
had  seen  but  once  before,  long  ago,  when  her  indulgent 
young  parents,  now  dead,  had  seen  better  days  ;  when, 
in  a  happy,  dreamful  time.  Cousin  Ilattie  had  visited 
them  in  the  country. 

This  child,  the  only  issue  of  an  unhappy  love  nuitch, 
had  been  very  tenderly  reared — too  tenderly.  She 
liad  been  kept  in  ignorance  of  the  city,  the  world, 
life.  And  so  when  her  father,  a  ruined  officer  of  the 
Southern  army,  died  suddenly,  and  was  followed  to  the 
grave  in  a  few  days  by  his  young  wife,  leaving  the  girl 
penniless,  what  did  she  know  ?     What  could  she  do  ? 

When  May  came  on — when  all  the  world  was  waking 
U]),  stirring,  moving,  pulsing,  and  throbbing  with  warm 


IN"   TIIK    OHKAT    CITY.  21 

new  life,  tliis  girl,  helpless  in  her  management  of  ;ifF;i.irs, 
friendless  because  penniless  and  proud,  left  all  behind 
her,  and  as  if  on  a  point  of  honor,  taking  not  so  much  as 
the  price  of  a  night's  lodging  with  her,  set  out  from  the 
little  village  in  the  hills  to  reach  her  cousin,  who  she  be- 
lieved, from  old  letters  found  in  her  mother's  trunk, 
lived  far  up  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

The  girl  had  written  to  her  cousin  in  the  city 
when  the  great  trouble  came  ;  but  no  answer.  Yet  do 
something,  go  somewhere,  she  must.  The  remembrance 
of  this  one  friendly  face  was  the  loadstone.  True,  she 
might  not  be  made  right  welcome  ;  but  she  would  learn 
to  work.  She  would  go  into  the  kitchen,  even,  till  she 
learned  to  do  something  to  earn  her  bread,  and  something 
better  offered. 

Then,  there  were  younger  sisters.  Maybe  slie  could 
serve  them  ;  be  a  maid  in  waiting  ;  tend  the  door  of  the 
great,  grand  house  on  Fifth  xV venue — do  anything  that 
was  honest  and  right  to  earn  her  bread,  and  not  be  de- 
pendent upon  strangers  who  despised  her  for  her  liel])less- 
ness  and  her  pride  ;  and,  let  it  be  also  addod,  for  her 
dangerous  beauty. 

It  is  said  if  you  throw  even  the  smallest  pebble  in  the 
middle  of  the  sea  the  ripples  will  roll  and  recede  till  they 
reach  the  utmost  shore  of  the  ocean. 

This  helpless  and  lone  girl  here,  borne  along  with  the 
throng,  was  a  waif,  a  ripple,  a  last  feeble  wave  of  the 
civil  war  breaking  on  the  strong  and  stony  shores  of  the 
North. 

The  force  of  the  human  stream  flowing  up  the  roaring 
street,  the  rapidity  of  it,  the  velocity  and  the  rush  of  it, 
gave  her  strength  to  keep  steadily  on  with  it  for  a  long, 
long  time. 

She  had  travei-sed  almost  the  whole  of  that  distance  of 


22  THE    DESTRUCTION    OF    COTIIAM. 

Broadway  reachinf^  from  Liberty  Street  to  Fifth  Avenue 
l)efore  tlie  melting  away  of  the  crowd  left  lier  unsup- 
ported on  either  side,  as  it  were,  and  brought  real  weak- 
ness to  her  limbs. 

And  by  good  fortune  she  then  caught  siglit  of  the  de- 
sired numbers  of  the  cross  streets  on  the  lamp-posts. 
This  gave  her  help,  and  she  wearily,  slowly  but  surely, 
kept  on  in  the  gray  twilight. 

The  mist  and  fog  crept  up  the  streets  on  her  right 
hand,  and  she  heard  the  doleful  call  of  the  fog-horns  as 
if  the  wail  of  monsters  that  had  lost  their  way  in  the 
gathering  night. 

To  the  left,  away  down  the  dark  brown  streets,  she  saw 
ships  sailing  up  and  down  cheerily. 

All  at  once  the  electric  lights  flashed  out  above  her 
head,  and  on  and  up  the  avenue.  It  was  so  brilliant,  so 
sudden,  that  she  was  almost  blinded.  She  stopped  and 
threw  up  her  weary  hands  in  this  weird  confusion  of  light 
and  sound  and  strange  things  above  and  about  her  as  one 
drowning  ;  and  then,  in  the  full  light,  face  to  face,  she 
saw  grinning  there  before  her  the  fat  and  greasy  old 
woman  of  the  feny. 

But  she  did  not  seem  so  fat  and  greasy  now.  In  fact, 
had  it  not  been  for  her  bright  and  wicked  eyes,  that 
seemed  to  burn  in  their  intensity,  the  girl  had  hardly 
rememl^ered  her. 

This  old  woman  had  merely  muttered  between  her  teeth 
as  she  turned  back  from  her  an  hour  before  and  up  her 
alley:  "Ah!  mon  Dieu  !  it's  Fifth  Avenue;  it's  a 
Fifth  Avenue  bird.  I  must  go  there  ;""  and  she  glanced 
up  at  the  elevated  railroad  as  she  spoke. 

As  Ave  have  seen,  she  arrived  on  Fifth  Avenue  before 
the  girl  ;  but  she  came  not  with  the  basket  and  the  bear- 
ing of  a  market-woman  at  all.     On  the  contrary,  she 


IN   TIIK    GUKAT    CITY.  23 

wore  silk  and  bore  a  parasol  of  silk — red  silk,  black 
silk,  and  silken  ribbons  of  all  the  hues  of  the  rain- 
bow. 

She  stood  there  in  the  heart  of  the  fashionable  city, 
arrayed  in  all  splendor,  as  if  slie  owned  the  avenue. 
Evidently  she  had  been  there  before,  and  knew  her  trade 
in  all  its  fearful  points  and  branches. 

Ample  time  she  had  had  to  dress  and  reach  this  fash- 
ionable quarter  as  soon  as  the  weary  and  discouraged  litle 
stranger.     She  had  taken  the  "  L"  road. 

"  My  dear,"  began  the  woman. 

The  girl  did  not  speak.  Iler  hands  clutched  together 
as  the  miserable  old  French  monster  glanced  and  grinned 
at  her  tears.  There  were  not  many  people  passing. 
The  cold  fog  blowing  over  the  town  from  the  east  had 
emptied  the  streets  of  humanity.  Tlie  fog-horns  called 
dolefully  in  the  distance  ;  almost  within  reach  of  her 
left  liand,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  although  it  was  blocks 
away,  the  elevated  railway  cars  made  a  stream  of  lire 
high  up  in  the  gathering  night. 

"  Mademoiselle,  they  have  sent  mo  to  bring  you.  It  is 
just  here,  my  beautiful  mademoiselle.     Come  !" 

The  woman  pointed  back  over  her  shoulder  toward 
Thirty-second  Street  with  the  thumb  of  her  left  hand 
empliatically,  insolently,  as  she  said,  in  a  coai*se  and  com- 
manding tone:  "Come  with  me."  With  the  otlier 
hand  she  attempted  to  seize  the  girl  by  the  arm.  Chil- 
dren of  the  wilderness  are  easily  startled  in  cities — in 
strange  cities  particularly.  They  arc  almost  like  wild 
beasts  at  first  ;  they  are  afraid  of  everything. 

The  animal — all  the  wild  animal — is  aroused  in  them  ; 
and  if  I  could  be  persuaded  to  believe  in  the  folly  of 
Darwin  and  doubt  the  ability  of  God  to  create  man 
directly  and  at  once  after  Ili.s  own  image,  1  should  bu 


24  THE    DESTRUCTION    OF   GOTIIAXI. 

more  influenced  ]>y  this  one  evidence  that  we  had  come  up 
tlirough  a  race  of  animals  tlian  by  any  otlicr.  For  you 
may  take  almost  any  one  from  a  city  and  set  him  down 
in  the  woods  for  a  day  alone,  and  he  is  soon  almost  as 
wild  as  a  wild  animal,  and  will  fly  from  the  face  of  man. 
A  child  will  take  upon  itself  all  the  wildness  of  a  wild 
beast  in  a  much  less  time  if  left  alone  in  the  woods  than  a 
man.  The  civilization  of  years  can  be  overthrown  in  jJ- 
most  any  human  being  in  a  very  few  days.  In  a  little 
time  we  return  to  our  real  nature. 

Darsvin  might  have  argued  his  cause  better  than  he 
has. 

The  girl,  with  all  her  gathered  strength  of  desperate 
fear,  sprang  into  the  middle  of  the  street,  crossed  it,  and 
fled  on  up-town,  looking  back  only  after  she  was  a  full 
block  away  for  the  cause  of  her  dread  and  alarm.  The 
persistent  old  Frenchwoman  with  the  colored  parasol  was 
slowly  but  surely  following  in  the  driving  and  dreary 
fog.     The  girl  redoubled  her  steps. 

You — you  who  know  the  city,  would  have  paid  no  at- 
tention, felt  no  fear,  gone  quietly  on  your  course.  If 
persecuted  or  too  hard  pushed  you  would  merely,  at 
most,  have  called  an  officer  and  given  the  woman  in  cus- 
tody. 

This  old  woman  had  read  correctly  the  great,  timid 
eyes.  The  broad  country  hat,  covering  the  wealth  of 
tumbled  black  curls,  told  all  she  cared  to  know  of  the  his- 
tory, the  heli)les8nes8,  the  honest  fear  of  this  poor,  tired 
stranger. 

She  followed  leisurely,  confidently  ;  flic  even  gayly 
swung  her  gay  parasol,  so  out  of  place  at  that  hour  and  in 
the  dismal  mist,  and  felt  perfectly  certain  of  her  prey. 

The  bright  and  cheery  lights  flashed  pleasantly  through 
peeps  in  the  great,  curtained  windows  as  the  girl  lifted 


IX   tin;    (iUKAT   CITY.  )lb 

licr   face    ill   fear    and   trem])liiijx    f<»r    tlic    Tuimher   slic 

Her  lieart  leapt  up  with  tlio  lii-st  real  delight  of  tlic 
dreary  and  ]K'ril()iis  day  as  she  saw  she  was  so  iie:ir  to 
safety.  She  hurried  on  faster  than  ever  before.  Glanc- 
ing hack,  she  saw  that  the  woman  was  nearer  now 
than  when  she  last  saw  her.  By  what  means  had  she 
glided  so  swiftly  upon  her  ?  The  girl  now  almost  ran. 
She  must  reach  her  number — 517 — before  that  woman 
came  up  ;  she  felt,  somehow,  she  must  do  this  or  die. 

She  knew  that  if  the  woman  spoke  to  her  she  could 
not  speak,  not  answer  her,  nor  control  her  feet,  but  would 
l)reak  into  precipitate  flight — fly  anywhere,  she  knew  not 
where,  but  fly  on,  and  on,  and  on. 

At  last,  breathless,  she  came  to  the  number.  She 
struggled  up  the  great,  massive  stone  steps,  dragged  her- 
self to  the  door,  and  pulled  the  l)ell  with  all  her  might. 

The  woman  did  not  attempt  to  come  up  the  steps  after 
her,  but  noting  the  number  and  quietly  chuckling  to 
herself,  passed  on  and  stood  on  the  corner  of  the  block, 
a  dozen  doors  away. 

A  trim,  slim,  and  liveried  man,  with  a  red  face  and  a 
dainty  hand,  opened  the  door.  A  flood  of  soft  light  fell 
upon  the  poor  girl  in  i)lack,  and  lay  like  a  mantle  upon 
her. 

A  halo  seemed  to  play  aT)out  the  beautiful  head.  She 
almost  fell  upon  her  knees  with  thankfulness  and  praise  ; 
but  the  elegant  figure  before  her  did  not  reach  a  hand. 
No  word  of  welcome  did  she  liear.  The  well-drilled 
servant  stood  as  still,  as  straight,  as  mute  as  a  post. 
Slie  struggled  to  speak.  At  last,  la  u  voice  that  fright- 
ened even  herself,  she  gasped  : 

"  Colonel  Lane  ?" 

"  Does  not  live  here." 


36  THK    DK.STIIUCTION    OF    GOTHAM. 

"  Does  not  live  here  ?     Then — then — where  is  he  ?" 
"  Do  not  know  ;  failed  last  year  ;  gone  ;  and,  miss, 
they  don't  want  no  help  here,  miss." 

The  great  door  closed.  The  servant  drew  back  the 
flood  of  light  and  glory  with  him,  and  the  girl  stood 
there  as  one  cast  forever  out  of  paradise  into  eternal  dark- 
ness. The  old  woman  came  back  slowly  toward  her  as 
she  tottered,  heartbroken  and  desolate,  down  the  great 
stone  steps.  The  terrible,  grinning  creature  before  her 
knew  all  that  had  happened.  It  had  happened  before. 
She  had  waited.     Now  the  reward  ! 


CHAPTER  III. 

MADISON    SQUARE    AT    NIOIIT. 

Whex  tlie  door  closed  in  the  face  of  tlic  poor  girl  on 
the  steps  of  the  great  Fifth  Avenue  mansion,  and  she 
found  herself  again  in  the  street,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  must  sink  down  and  die  where  she  stood. 

Alone  in  the  groat  city — so  utterly  alone,  so  weary, 
60  worn  and  hungry,  faint,  frightened  almost  out  of  her 
senses  as  she  thought  of  the  old  woman  coming  to  lay 
hold  of  her  if  she  did  not  fly,  and  fly  instantly. 

But  where  could  she  go  now  ?  Up  the  street  or  down 
the  street  ?     To  the  East  River  or  the  North  River  i 

Looking  over  her  shoulder,  she  saw  that  the  fat  and 
leering  old  creature  was  only  a  few  dooi'S  away.  There 
was  but  one  course  open  now,  but  one  way  of  escape. 
She  hastily  turned  about  and  took  that  course  as  fast  as 
she  could  fly. 

Surely  she  was  not  in  her  best  senses  now.  licr  terror 
was  the  terror  of  a  child  who  has  seen,  or  rather  fancies 
she  has  seen,  a  monster  in  the  dark,  and  flies  to  her  mother. 

Rut  this  poor  child  had  no  mother  to  fly  to  this  side 
the  great  dark  river  of  death.  Tiie  only  mother  that  she 
had  waiting  now  this  side  of  heaven  was  ^[othcr  Earth. 
Come,  let  us  see  what  became  of  her. 

Nearly  sixteen  years  before  this  dreary,  weary  night, 
in  the  proud,  strong  city,  the  now  terrifled  child  had 
come  down  out  of  heaven  alone,  helpless,  naked,  and  had 
rested  safe  in  a  fond  and  i^rateful  mother's  arms. 


28  THE    DESTRUCTION    OF    flOTHAM. 

The  mother  luul  made  lier  very  welcome,  this  little 
waif  entrusted  to  her  keeping  through  God's  hand,  reach- 
ing silently  and  unseen  from  out  the  great  somewhere. 

A  tiny  thing,  so  small,  so  helpless,  and  so  alone,  had 
iilled  completely  that  mother's  whole  wide  world. 

Right  here  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  for  us  all  to 
pause  and  reflect  that  ev^ery  poor  waif  of  this  world,  no 
matter  how  poor,  lone,  friendless,  despised,  did,  at  one 
time,  fill  some  such  young  mother's  cup  of  life  completely 
with  unalloyed  delight. 

1  think  a  reflection  like  this  might  make  the  most  of 
us  just  a  trifle  more  humane  and  tender  to  the  wretched. 
And  here  is  another  thought — and  oh,  the  comfort  of 
it  in  the  desolate  days  of  abandonment  and  despair  ! — 
any  one  of  us,  even  the  most  miserable,  had  at  one  time, 
in  the  beginning  of  our  troubled  journey  of  this  life,  the 
entire  love  of  some  sweet  woman,  the  one  undisputed 
place  close  to  her  wann  and  grateful  heart  ! 

This  frail  child,  flying  here  now,  frightened,  looking 
back  in  terror,  had  been  so  small,  so  frail  at  first.  Peo- 
ple are  like  plants.  Some  plants  are  strong  and  tall  and 
amply  able,  even  in  the  beginning  ;  some  are  so  little, 
so  frail  and  feeble,  that  they  can  hardly  find  their  M'ay 
through  the  ground.     These  flowers  are  the  sweetest. 

This  little  girl  had  been  called  "  Dot"  in  the  begin- 
ning. Maybe  it  was  because  she  was  so  small.  Maybe 
it  M'as  because  the  happy  mother  wanted  to  call  her 
daughter  a  pet  name,  and  so  shortened  it  into  this.  After 
awhile  she  was  called  Dottie.  "  This  was  the  name  she 
had  when  I  first  knew  her — Dottie  Lane.  I  never  knew 
that  she  had  any  other  name." 

This  last  sentence  is  taken  from  the  testimony  of  one 
of  the  witnesses  at  the  inquest. 

Finally  the  old  woman  Ix^gan  to  show  Impatience  as 


MADISON    S(iLAKK    AT    ^'I01IT.  29 

she  looked  after  tlio  flying  cliild.  She  stopped  in  the 
empty  street  after  a  few  blocks,  and  it  seemed  as  if  at 
last  the  girl  was  to  escape  lier  brutal  clutches. 

A  man  entering  the  elegant  club-house  at  the  corner 
distinctly  heard  the  old  monster  muttering  dreadful  oaths, 
as  she  paused,  putUng  and  blowing,  at  the  edge  of  the 
curbstone.  The  nuin — not  a  Kew  Yorker — stopped  sud- 
denly, looked  at  her.  lie  knew  her  and  licr  i)urpose. 
She  felt  this,  and,  closing  her  lips,  she  kept  sulkily  on. 
Tlien  she  apparently  reflected  that  she  must  earn  her 
money,  and  she  redoubled  her  pace  on  down  Murray  Hill 
toward  Madison  Square. 

Os^er  this  beautiful  square,  the  centre  of  all  that  is 
s])lendid,  costly,  and  attractive  in  the  most  opulent  city 
of  the  earth,  there  had  recently  risen  a  glory  like  a  sun- 
rise, a  something  altogether  new,  strange,  indescribable, 
nuitchless,  and  magnificent — a  lofty  shaft  of  electric  light. 

People  had  stood  for  the  first  few  days,  or  rather 
nights,  in  tens  of  thousands  in  a  vast  circle,  as  if  held 
there  in  awe  and  admiration. 

By  degrees  they  had  melted  away  and  gone  on  in  their 
various  swift  ])ursuits  in  the  great  city.  No  pen  had  at- 
tempted to  describe  this  new  splendorof  the  night.  The 
World  had  come  to  accept  it  as  one  of  the  miglity  mile- 
p(»sts  set  np  in  the  march  of  the  genius  of  man. 

It  seemed  like  a  miracle  ;  but  it  was  soon  accepted 
as  a  scientific  fact. 

Beautiful  woman  in  the  great  city  saw  that  she  was 
even  more  beautiful  in  this  miraculous  light,  (^ay, 
ardent  men  made  love  with  even  more  fervor  than  before 
under  its  soft  and  sensuous  rays  ;  and  the  world  moved  on. 

Yet  this  strange,  new  thing  can  never  grow  old.  Here 
is  a  creation  by  the  hand  of  num.  Man  has  made  some- 
thiuii:  out  of  nothini;. 


30  THE    DESTRUCTION'    OF    GOTHAM. 

Out  of  wliut  has  liG  created  this  ?  From  wluit  dark 
laboratory  of  science  has  he  brought  forth  this  marvel- 
lous, this  miraculous  light  ? 

When  the  beautiful  girl  had  dragged  her  weary  limbs 
past  the  Brunswick  and  come  full  into  the  burst  of  light, 
with  all  the  friendly  trees  before  her,  a  cry  of  jo}'  burst 
from  her  lips.  Oh,  tlic  cheering,  alluring,  and  restful 
light ! 

Oh,  the  kind,  oiitreaching  arms  of  her  old  and  familiar 
trees  !  She  ran  to  the  outstretched  arms  of  the  largest 
tree  in  the  centre  of  the  park  as  to  the  arms  of  her 
mother. 

Close  behind  her  had  come  the  old  woman.  But  this 
mighty  circle  of  light,  this  new  halo  about  the  head  of 
science,  appalled  her. 

She  feared  the  light.  It  seemed  to  draw  an  impassable 
circle  about  the  poor  girl,  which  she,  with  a  sort  of  super- 
stition, did  not,  for  a  time  at  least,  dare  to  cross.  And 
while  the  girl  sought  the  inmost  heart  of  the  new-leaved 
trees  close  under  the  lofty  shaft  of  light,  and  there  threw 
herself  on  an  iron  bench  as  one  almost  dead,  her  pursuer 
hovered,  with  an  oath  on  her  lips,  on  the  edge  of  the 
mighty  circle  of  light  under  the  branches  of  the  trees. 

Here,  close  to  the  curbstone,  almost  under  these  trees, 
stands  perpetually  a  row  of  cabs.  Tlie  woman  waddled 
to  one  of  the  tall,  strong,  vicious-looking  cabmen  famil- 
iarly, and  threw  her  left  thumb  back  toward  the  heart  of 
the  park,  lie  knew  her,  knew  her  business,  for  he  had 
seen  the  girl  pass,  and  so  he  promjitly  answered  her  with 
a  knowing  wink  and  a  nod. 

She  felt  stronger  and  greatly  encouraged  as,  through 
the  new  leaves  far  away  in  the  centre  of  the  park,  she 
saw  the  girl  totter  and  fall  into  the  cold  iron  arms  of  the 
chilly  and  dripping  iron  bench. 


MADISON"    RQl'AKF,    AT    MfiHT.  31 

At  last  tlio  <^aine  liad  l)cen  l)rouu;lit  to  hay.  Tnu;,  slio 
was  very  tired  lierself — almost  as  tired  as  the  girl.  J>ut 
hur  woik  was  at  last  nearly  accomplished. 

She  took  in  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction,  sanntercd  on 
along  the  lino  of  cabmen,  and  tinally,  coming  back,  with 
an  eye  now  and  then  thrown  toward  the  little  black  heap 
in  the  centre  of  the  scjuare,  she  fell  into  earnest  conver- 
sation with  the  Hrst  of  these  petty  land  ])iratcs  to  whoin 
she  had  spoken. 

After  awhile  he  drew  something  from  his  ample  pocket, 
looked  about,  and  handed  it  to  the  woman.  She  stepped 
np  to  the  cab  door,  put  her  head  in,  raised  the  bottle,  and 
drank  long  and  gratefully. 

Ah  !  you  hate,  abhor  this  monster  !  Stop  !  Abhor 
and  hate  the  handsome,  gay,  dissolute  men  of  this  won- 
derful city  wlio  make  her  trade,  and  the  growing  trade  of 
those  like  her,  profitable.  Look  at  the  great  gand^lers, 
the  big,  red-faced  men,  with  their  big,  red  fists  clutching 
tight  and  close  to  their  millions  upon  jnillions.  These  are 
the  men  who  maintain  her  in  her  trade — great  spiders,  in 
their  webs  of  wire  and  railroad  tracks,  waiting  to  devour 
the  body  and  soul  she  brings.  Destroy  these,  and  you 
destroy  her.  Hers  is  a  hard  business  at  best,  full  of  peril 
and  un])leasant  work.     She  earns  her  money. 

To  destroy  this  new  and  growing  traffic,  this  dire 
fungus  growing  out  of  the  unexampled  opulence  of  this 
city,  this  more  than  lloman  revelry  and  recklessness,  you 
must  know  this  woman,  know  these  men.  Hence  these 
pages. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


PEPORTEKS. 


A  GREAT  dinner  was  being  given  at  Delmonico's,  just 
across  the  street,  that  night.  The  great  generals  of  a 
fratricidal  war,  who  had  sold  tlieir  independence,  if  not 
their  honor,  to  tlie  great  politicians  of  the  great  city  for 
houses  and  horses  and  purses  of  money  which  had  been 
"  presented  "  to  them,  were  being  entertained  by  the 
great  politician  of  a  great  and  grateful  party. 

It  was  important  that  these  great  soldiers  should  make 
great  speeches.  To  this  end  some  able  but  honest,  and 
hence  threadbare,  reporters  were  necessarily  a  part  of  this 
great  company.  Some  of  these  reporters  were  now  hast- 
ening to  their  respective  newspaper  offices  down  at  the 
other  end  of  the  city.  They  had  been  told  by  the 
managers  of  this  magnificent  affair  what  the  great  generals 
would  say,  or  rather  should  say,  and  each,  sharing  his 
notes  with  his  fellows  in  helpful  fraternity,  was  hastening 
on  his  way. 

One  of  these  saw  the  old  woman  talking  emphatically 
M-ith  the  cabman.  The  liquor  had  warmed  her  for  her 
work.  It  had  floated  her  wicked  nature  very  near  to  the 
surface.  She  talked  loud  and  aggressively  as  she  now 
and  then  jerked  her  thumb  back  in  the  direction  of  the 
little  hcaj)  now  doubled  up  in  a  corner  of  the  iron  bench 
under  the  great  white  light  that  gleamed  high  in  the  air 
like  a  halo  around  some  sacred  and  dimly  outlined  image. 

The   doleful   fog-horns   had  died  away.      The  last  re- 


REPORTERS.  33 

nuiiiiin^  elements  of  storm  and  winter,  whicli  had  battled 
long  to  hold,  even  in  this  lovely  month,  some  place  in 
the  city,  had  now  fled  to  the  north. 

The  night  was  clear  and  beautifnl.  The  stars  seemed 
to  recognize  the  rivalry  of  this  new  light  on  earth,  and 
shone  with  uncommon  lustre  from  all  the  awfnl  arch  of 
lieaven. 

The  moon  came  shouldering  up  in  the  cast  in  all  her 
full  glory,  and  looked  down  with  undiminished  splendor 
against  this  new  creation  of  the  children  of  men. 

This  made  the  quaintest  tracery  of  leaves  on  the 
smooth,  hard  pavement,  and  paths  in  and  about  the 
P(piare,  ever  seen. 

A  light  wind  lifted  the  new  leaves,  and  shadows 
danced  up  and  down  and  about  the  poor  girl  under  the 
great  white  light,  beautiful  as  dreams  of  fairyland. 

Iler  head  was  low  on  her  breast.  Iler  small  brown 
hand  held  hard  to  the  iron  arms  of  the  bench  on  either 
side.  She  was  afraid  even  as  she  slept.  But  she  dreamed 
— dreamed  almost  beautifnl  dreams. 

And  let  us  thank  God  for  this  other  world  into  which 
we  can  pass,  which  we  can  possess  without  challenge, 
price,  or  question,  when  weary  of  this  one. 

She  dreamed  she  had  found  her  strong  and  beautiful 
cousin,  Ilattie  Lane  ;  that  Ilattie  had  gone  only  a  little 
way  farther  on,  and  would  soon  be  back  and  take  her 
home,  where  it  was  warm  and  bright.  She  felt  that  she 
wius  cold  and  full  of  pain  ;  but  in  her  dreams  she  knew 
Ilattie  would  come. 

1  do  not  know  that  1  have  described  Ilattie  Lane  to 
you  perfectly.  And  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  the  very 
name  means  strength,  purity,  splendor  of  mind,  charac- 
ter, form,  and  face.  I  always  remember  her,  somehow, 
as  a  sort  of  magnolia  tree. 


34  THE   DESTRUCTIOX   OF   GOTHAM. 

But  people  reared  in  the  woods  are  too  apt,  1  think, 
to  associate  those  they  love  or  admire  with  some  stately 
or  impressive  tree  or  flower. 

This  fair  and  perfect  woman  was  one  of  the  few  honi 
in  the  great  city.  She  had  grown  with  its  growth.  She 
loved  this  city.  She  thought  she  knew  it  well  ;  at  all 
events,  she  felt  equal  to  it  at  all  times  and  under  all  cir- 
cumstances. 

But  her  father,  as  we  have  seen,  in  the  whirl  of  fortune's 
wheel,  had  lost  his  footing  on  Fifth  Avenue.  Another 
woman  was  mistress  of  the  fine  mansion  where  his  daughter 
had  once  reigned  supreme,  the  queen  of  Murray  Hill. 

And  the  dethroned  queen  had  not  been  missed  greatly. 
Hundreds  stood  ready  to  take  her  place.  They  made  up 
in  numbers  and  in  audacity  what  they  lacked  in  heart 
and  in  accomplishments.  They  were  rich — all  very  rich. 
The  chief  requisite  was  amply  at  hand. 

It  was  a  case  of  meeting  on  the  social  stairway.  As 
she  had  descended  she  had  met  the  handsome  and  brill- 
iant, yet  dissolute  and  daring  young  Matherson,  whom 
we  first  saw  on  the  ferry-boat,  and  who  gave  the  dis- 
guised old  woman  the  bountiful  fee.  Here  her  feet 
must  take  hold. 

Having  briefly  described  Hattie  Lane,  the  dethroned 
queen  of  society,  let  us  glance  at  her  accepted  lover,  of 
whom  she  knew  literally  nothing  save  that  he  was  rich 
and  rising.  Yet  these  things  were  much — all.  Oh, 
these  new  men  !  They  are  bold,  aggressive,  insolent ; 
misfortune  indeed  makes  strange  bedfellows. 

Matherson  was  a  typical  New  Yorker.  It  is  due  the 
great  city  to  say  that  he  was  a  type  only  of  a  type — a 
man  who  had  grown  up  in  the  city  suddenly,  as  mush- 
rooms grow,  and  from  the  reeking  compost  of  it,  and  a 
chronic  drinker. 


UEPOllTERS.  35 

There  were  tliose  who  liad  seen  tliis  same  man,  a  lad, 
wasliing  ghisses  behind  a  bar,  listening  as  he  wronght  to 
the  politicians  whose  glasses  he  washed. 

When  he  had  come  of  age  he  not  only  had  saved  some 
money,  but  he  had  laid  up  much  general  political  knowl- 
edge of  the  great  city — practical  knowledge,  too  ! 

lie  was  soon  counted  a  young  man  of  ability  and 
promise  by  those  who  count  only  the  money  a  man  ol> 
tains.  lie  now  left  the  low  haunts  and  took  employ- 
ment with  a  broker  of  much  ambition  and  little  charac- 
ter. Both  the  broker  and  himself  soon  stood  on  solid 
footing,  so  far  as  money  went.  And  now  he  needed 
nothing  really  but  character.  But  his  low  instincts,  as 
we  see,  still  asserted  themselves,  lie  was  not  yet  a  gen- 
tleman, by  a  good  deal,  although  his  course  was  upward. 
Could  he  ever  be  a  gentleman  ? 

Lie  down  on  the  banks  of  the  Kile  and  watch  the 
actions  of  a  crocodile.  At  Urst  you  only  see  his  black 
and  ugly  head.  After  awhile,  and  before  you  fairly 
know  it,  he  is  half  Avay  out  of  the  water  ;  then  he  is  half 
way  up  the  bank,  lie  stops  here  quite  a  time.  Then 
suddenly  he  jerks  forward  and  is  on  a  level  with  you. 
Another  pause,  and  then  the  next  thing  you  know  he  is 
right  alongside  of  you.     Such  was  Matherson. 

But  to  return  to  the  brilliant  scenes  of  Madison 
S(juare.  We  will  see  Ilattie  Lane  and  her  lover  in  that 
vicinity  soon,  arm  in  arm. 

On  either  hand  down  the  short  streets  toward  the 
rivers  you  could  see  the  elevated  railway  cars,  with  their 
lights  of  many  colors,  shoot  and  thunder  through  the  air. 

Now  and  then,  a  little  farther  on,  the  wide,  white 
wings  of  a  ship  glistened  and  gleamed  in  the  breeze  ;vs  it 
sailed  slowly  across  the  end  of  the  street.  The  sailors 
would  lift  their  hats  and  salute  the  two  mighty  lights  of 


36  THE    DESTRUCTION   OP  GOTHAM. 

tlie  city  at  Mudi.son  and  Union  squares  as  they  poured 
tlieir  new-found  ^lory  away  out  over  the  waters  and  over 
tlie  decks  of  the  ships. 

Around  the  ishmd  of  Manhattan,  and  even  far  away  at 
sea,  men  Hfted  their  faces  and  marvelled  at  this  wonder- 
ful work  of  nuin  glowing  here  in  the  lieart  of  the  mighty 
city. 

Commerce  had  reared  her  proudest  altar  here  on  this 
most  opulent  island  in  all  history. 

These  two  mighty  lights  were  two  colossal  candles  set 
up  on  the  altar  of  commerce, 

''  Here  !  here  !  you  can't  sleep  'ere.  Don't  you 
know  we  can't  let  girls  sleep  'ere  ?" 

The  policeman  struck  the  iron  arm  of  the  bench  loudly 
with  his  club.  The  blow  shook  her  little  brown  hand 
loose,  and,  with  a  cry  of  alarm,  the  girl  staggered  to  her 
feet. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  'ere  for  ?" 

"  Ilattie  Lane,"  piteously  cried  the  startled  girl,  clasp- 
ing her  stiffened  hands  helplessly  together. 

It  was  such  a  wail,  such  a  cry  as  if  for  help,  a  call  as 
if  calling  for  one  who  was  only  now  with  her,  maybe, 
that  theothccr  knew  at  once  that  this  child  was  honest — 
helplessly,  pitifully  honest. 

"  Well,  sit  down  and  wait  ;  but  don't  sleep." 

He  pushed  on  around  a  lot  of  Howers,  and  then  lie 
suddenly  stopped,  turned,  and  came  back. 

"  I  say" — he  tapped  the  iron  arm  of  the  bench  with 
his  club,  as  he  saw  her  head  again  settling  on  her  breast — 
"  I  say,  miss,  sleep  if  you  wants  to.  I'll  watch,  and  if 
I  see  'em  comin'  by  tliis  way — no,  don't  be  afraid  now  ; 
I  mean  anybody — I'll  wake  you  up,  and  you  must  hold 
up  your  head.  No,  1  won't  take  you  to  the  'ouse  ; 
won't  run  ye  in,  sis.     You  seem  square.     But,  you  see, 


REI'OIITKUS.  37 

if  I'd  let  you  sleep  'ere,  miss,  it  would  break  uic,  it 
would." 

The  little  head  was  already  low  on  the  weary  hrciist 
even  as  he  spoke.  Peeriiiij^  through  the  trees  he  eaught 
sight  of  the  heavy  figure  of  the  old  woman  stealing,  in 
a  diminishing  circle,  nearer  and  nearer.  The  well-filled 
llask  of  the  cabnum,  who  was  waiting  for  his  work,  had 
greatly  emboldened  her. 

The  ofiicer  knew  her  mission.  He  continued  to  keep 
his  eyes  on  the  bench,  but  moved  in  her  direction.  She 
knew  his  purpose,  and  fell  back  even  beyond  the  square. 
He  followed  her,  and  the  two  eyed  each  other  at  a  safe 
distance  across  the  street. 

The  reporter  had  sent  his  work  forward  by  a  brother 
scribe,  and  he  now  witnessed  the  scene  as  he  stood  be- 
neath the  shifting  shadows.  He  made  a  story  of  it  for 
his  paper  even  as  he  stoorl  there.  There  was  nothing 
tangible  ;  nothing  had  been  done.  A  stranger  passing 
would  have  seen  nothing,  suspected  nothing.  But  love, 
hate,  treachery,  romance,  tragedy — all  these  were  there 
in  inception  under  the  quivering  leaves  in  the  little 
square,  under  the  great  light  of  the  wondrous  city. 

Hattie  Lane,  holding  gracefully  the  arm  of  John 
Matherson,  the  rich,  rising,  and  handsome  man  of  the 
ferry-boat,  was  happy. 

A  coai"so  num  of  this  city  once  remarked,  with  more 
force  than  gramnuir,  "  that  in  Xew  York  a  man  can  live 
as  many  lives  as  he  has  money."  Matherson  now  lived 
many  lives,  for  he  now  had  much  money. 

These  two  were  approaching  by  chance  the  iron  bench 
under  the  great  white  light.  The  officer  suddeidy  dis- 
continued his  surveillance  of  the  woman,  whirled  about, 
and  came  rapidly  down  the  circling  path  to  where  the 
girl  sat  sleeping.     He  was  almost  face  to  face  with  thg 


38  THE    DESTRUCTION    OF    GOTHAM. 

lovers.  lie  struck  the  arm  of  the  iron  bench  as  he 
passed,  and  the  i^irl  was  again  on  her  feet.  AVould  she 
now  speak  ?  AVould  she  now  utter  her  startled  cry, 
"  Hattie  Lane"?  Could  she  only  open  her  parched 
lips  now,  cry  out  and  be  heard,  be  known  and  saved  ? 

Her  great  eyes  looked  straight  ahead,  helpless,  and  as 
if  she  were  still  asleep.  But  she  spoke  no  word,  and  the 
lovers  passed  on.  Ilattie  was  looking  in  the  face  of  her 
lover  ;  he  liad  said  something  very  tender  to  her.  Her 
eyes,  her  heart,  her  whole  being,  were  lifted  to  him. 
She  saw  no  one,  heard  no  one.  To  lier  nuthing  existed 
now  save  the  man  she  loved. 

But  he,  a  perfect  New  Yorker,  cold,  deliberate,  selfish, 
saw  and  understood  all — everything.  The  cabman,  the 
old  woman,  the  officer,  even  the  man  of  the  press, 
whom  he  hated  and  despised  too,  were  no  mysteries 
to  him. 

Quickening  his  pace  imperceptibly,  in  a  few  moments 
he  led,  in  all  his  splendid  indilference,  into  the  Bruns- 
wick, and  soon  had  the  whole  party  at  dinner. 

It  was  observed  by  one  of  the  young  ladles  that  he 
left  the  party  for  a  moment  to  talk  to  a  hard-looking 
man  waiting  about  the  door,  and  it  was  observed  by 
her  also  that  the  man  suddenly  disappeared  up  the 
street. 

But  soon  they  were  all  gayly  laughing,  drinking,  feast- 
ing ;  and  the  handsome  and  dashing  John  Matherson, 
bowing  now  to  tliis  friend  and  now  to  that,  as  the 
gay  and  galhmt  hahltnes  of  the  place  came  and  went, 
seemed  to  be  the  happiest  and  merriest  of  the  merry 
group. 

Suddenly  tliere  was  a  cry  of  lire,  and  engines,  in  a 
stream  of  lire,  poured  up  tlie  avenue.  The  party  sprang 
to  their  feet  ;  but  Matherson  coolly  put  forth  his  hand, 


KKl'OKTEHS.  39 

set  tlicm  ill  their  places,  and  tlie  merriment  went  on.  A 
cal)  dasliod  by  ;  an  old  woman,  lookin<>;  through  tlic  win- 
dow of  the  cab,  leered  as  she  passed.  She  hchl  a  yonu*^ 
<;irl  in  her  arms.  Ilattic  Lane  saw  this  cab,  and  wondered 
if  it  was  dashiiiir  on  to  the  lire. 


CHAPTER  Y. 


AX    (Jl'KX    HEART. 


"  You  can  live  as  inaiiy  lives  in  New  York  as  you 
have  money  to  pay  for," 

With  this  almost  popular  sentiment  permeating  at  least 
a  very  substantial  element  of  society,  it  can  be  understood 
what  a  prodigious  price  men,  and  women  too,  are  will- 
ing to  sometimes  pay  for  money. 

More  than  two  years  had  j)assed  since  that  brilliant 
May  night  in  Madison  Scpiare — that  night  of  blended 
starlight  and  moonlight,  with  occasional  drifts  of  sea 
fog,  when  the  dingy  carriage  was  seen  to  whirl  toward 
that  doubtful  quarter  of  the  city  lying  between  Twenty- 
sixth  and  Thirty-second  Street  hard  by,  and  many 
changes  had  taken  place. 

In  this  M'onderful  city  the  hands  of  the  clock  turn 
swiftly  on  the  face  of  the  dial.  Nothing  stands  still 
here.  Even  the  tombstones  move  on.  The  living  de- 
mand the  places  of  the  dead. 

The  fann'lyof  Hattie  Lane  was  even  more  unfortunate 
and  nearer  the  brink  of  what  is,  commercially  speaking, 
called  "  ruin"  than  before.  Iler  helpless  old  father, 
hel2)lessly  lionest,  amiable,  gentle  as  an  old-world  gentle- 
man of  a  former  generation,  leaned  upon  her  entirely. 

And  she  took  all  the  load  upon  her  fair  white  shoul- 
ders, and  kept  a  calm  demeanor  and  a  brave  face  before 
all  the  world.  Born  to  luxury,  bred  only  in  the  gentlest 
ways  of  life,  she  found  it  hard — very  hard — to  hold  her 


AN"   OPEN   HEART.  41 

place  and  1)0  l»rii:;]it  jukI  cheery,  witli  only  dismay  and 
ruin  hefore  her.  In  hooks — indeed  in  jnany  lands — men 
— great  and  gtxjd  men — select  such  peerless  women  f(jr 
wives  :  woo  them  ardently,  win  them,  wed  them,  love 
and  honor  them.  But  this  is  a  city  of  commerce,  harter, 
trade.      Tliis  does  not  transpire  here — not  often. 

She  at  last  loved  Matherson.  He  seemed  so  strong 
and  manly,  so  calm  at  all  times  and  serene  and  satisfied, 
as  thou'j:h  he  niiijht  stand  like  a  wall  of  tire  hetween  her 
and  all  trouhle  when  the  dark  days  came.  He  loved 
her,  too,  in  his  way,  after  his  fashion  ;  and  she  thought 
it  the  true  way.  Indeed,  he  promised  all  things.  She 
believed  all  things.  And  then,  he  was  rich  !  Love  is 
faith.  Love  is  faith,  hope,  and  charity.  It  is  all  things 
on  this  earth. 

^[atherson  liad  still  further  advanced  his  fortunes  and 
liis  position,  too.  lie  held  a  place  of  trust  and  honor  and 
prodigious  profit  as  one  of  the  tribute-takers  at  this  great 
seaport.  lie  had,  by  pei*sistent  push  and  political  influ- 
ence, become  one  of  that  mysterious,  that  silent  and  unseen 
army  of  more  than  a  thousand  men  who  are  set  down  by 
the  white  sea-doors  to  M'atch  the  coming  and  going  of 
free  men  to  and  from  this  free  country,  and  whose  duty  it 
is  to  open  other  people's  trunks,  examine  their  clothes, 
Ixtoks,  boots,  cigars,  bread,  butter — almost  all  things,  in- 
deed, known  to  man  or  woman,  and  pass  impartial  (?) 
judgment  on  their  value  and  to  demand  tribute  accord- 
ingly- 

He  had  become  a  Federal  officer  with  a  name.  He 
Wiis  now  high  enough  in  his  ascent  to  reach  the  hand  of 
Miss  Lane.  And  she  gave  it,  as  we  have  seen,  frankly, 
bravely,  and  without  a  shadow  of  doubt  of  liis  truth, 
honor,  love,  and  eterrud  constancy.  And  yet,  who  could 
8;iy  it  was  not  all  deserved  i     Place  your  finger  on  a  spot 


42  THE    DESTRUCTIOX    OF    GOTHAM. 

in  his  character,  if  you  can.  Generous  he  was  to  all,  it 
seemed.  It  was  really  hard  for  him  to  pass  a  8tran<^er 
soliciting  help  anywhere  and  not  quietly  share  his  loose 
coins. 

lie  had  a  pew  at  the  church — the  church,  mark  you — 
and  was  admired  by  many  a  fond  mother,  to  say  notliing 
at  all  of  innumerable  daughters.  lie  might  have  married 
a  rich  woman.     He  did  not  seem  to  care  to  do  this. 

And  for  this  Hattie  loved  him,  if  for  nothing  else, 
with  all  her  great,  warm  heart.     How  could  she  help  it  ? 

Among  other  changes  noted  in  tlie  years  that  liave 
passed  may  be  mentioned  the  fact  that  fate,  or  fortune, 
or  misfortune  had  thrown  Walton,  the  quiet  man  v/ith 
the  slouch  hat,  pencil,  and  note-book,  in  the  frequent 
presence  of  Hattie  Lane,  and  under  the  wheels  of  her 
chariot.  He  too  could  not  help  loving  her.  He  could 
not  keep  from  that  ;  but  he  could  keep  from  telling  his 
love.  He  would  not  trouble  her  with  that.  He  loved 
this  woman  too  well  to  tell  her  of  his  love. 

This  Walton  was  a  unique  and  simple  character.  He 
was  always  persistently,  obstinately,  serenely  poor.  He 
also  had  a  habit  of  saying  things. 

Once  a  friend  of  his,  a  fellow  scribe,  who  went  about 
night  and  day,  like  himself,  picking  up  crumbs  of  fact 
and  fancy  to  feed  the  world  upon  at  breakfast,  got  dis- 
couraged. 

This  friend  laid  down  his  pencil  and  note-])ook,  and  in 
a  burst  of  eloquent  despair  drew  a  picture  of  the  splendor 
of  the  world  about  him  and  the  pitiful  contrast  of  his 
own  poverty  and  meagre  pay.  Then  he  brought  his  fist 
down  emphatically  on  the  old  ink-stained  table,  away  up 
in  the  reporter's  garret,  with  its  crumbling  plaster  and 
its  one  short,  sharp,  and  wicked  gas-jet  thrusting  out  at 
you  into  your  eyes  like  a  lance,  and  vowed  he  would 


AN   OPEN   HEART.  43 

never  again  take  ii[>  pencil  or  note-book,  but  go  out  into 
tiio  world  like  others  and  make  nioTiey. 

AValtou  listened  patiently  until  his  friend  had  finished, 
and  then  said  quietly,  under  his  broad  slouch  hat,  which 
he  had  tilted  a  little  to  one  side,  as  a  shield  against  the 
glaring  gas-jet  :  ''  My  boy,  listen  to  me." 

The  bright  but  pale-faced  toiler  of  the  press  looked  at 
him  gloomily. 

*'  My  boy,"  said  he,  "  there  are  people  who  are  fit  for 
nothing  else  but  to  make  money.  You  can  do  better 
things  than  make  money." 

The  companion  took  up  his  pencil  and  book. 

Once  he  said  to  a  group  of  reporters,  as  he  climbed  up 
to  the  stufiFy  garret  of  his  paper  :  "  Boys,  I  feel  mean. 
I  have  had  every  particle  of  sunshine  that  God's  hand 
has  reached  down  out  of  heaven  this  day.  I  know  that 
not  a  single  inillionaire  in  all  New  York  has  had  as 
much." 

It  is  doubtful,  however,  that,  with  all  this  sunshine,  he 
had  really  liad  his  supper.  At  the  same  time,  sup])er  or 
no  supper,  it  is  i)retty  clear  that  no  millionaire  in  all  the 
world  was  as  happy  as  he  at  that  moment.  As  I  have 
said,  this  man  was  a  searcher  after  "  character,"  a  lover 
of  *^  types  " — studies  in  nature  he  called  them. 

On  the  night  of  the  scene  of  lire,  as  before  described, 
when  all  the  little  world  blazed  in  glory  about  Madison 
Square,  he  too  had  sprung  forward  with  the  rest  of 
humimity  in  the  direction  of  the  cry  of  danger  and  peril. 
The  flying  horses,  with  their  engines  scattering  fire  and 
leaving  streaks  of  sparks  and  flame  behind,  he  followed, 
lie  ran  swiftly  up  the  street.  His  duty  was  to  get  his 
crumb  of  truth  for  the  sleeping  and  hungry  world's 
breakfast. 

When  he  arrived  un  the  spot,  the  su[)erintendent  was 


44  TUE    DESTRUCTION    OF   GOTHAM. 

leaning  from  liis  little  wagon  and  talking  earnestly  with 
an  officer.  The  engines  were  turning  about  to  retrace 
their  steps.  There  was  not  a  vestige  of  tire  to  be  seen. 
There  had  been  no  lire,  no  need  of  alarm.  But  those 
who  turn  out  with  such  swiftness  and  precision  are  so  in 
love  with  their  work  that  they  rarely,  if  ever,  make  any 
question  or  tind  any  fault  with  a  false  alarm.  They  are 
used  to  that,  too. 

Suddenly  Walton  remembered  the  little  creature  whom 
he  had  left  in  the  centre  of  the  square  under  the  great 
light  and  the  shining  leaves. 

lie  hastened  back  ;  the  girl  was  gone  ;  the  officer  was 
also  gone. 

But  duty  had  taken  him  a  little  way  in  the  direction 
of  the  alarm,  and  he  had,  perhaps,  not  yet  returned. 
Then  the  reporter  saw  that  the  old  woman  had  also  gone  ; 
and  then  he  saw  that  the  suspicious-looking  cab  and  its 
driver  had  also  gone. 

Ask  the  next  cabman  in  what  direction,  and  with 
whom  ?  You  had  as  well  ask  the  bronze  admiral  look- 
ing down  there  from  his  unsteady  stand  on  the  stern  of 
his  ship. 

The  reporter  took  a  turn  about  tlu  npiare  after  writing 
a  line  and  a  half  concerning  the  false  alarm — for  which  he 
would  probably  realize  the  price  of  a  chop  for  breakfast 
— but  could  find  no  clew — see,  hear  nothing. 

Yet  he  knew  very*  well  that  something  terrible  had 
happened.  He  went  over  to  the  stained  and  beautiful 
windows  of  the  Brunswick,  and,  passing  by,  stole  a  glance 
within.  Mathcrson  was  lifting  his  glass,  and  in  all  the 
splendid  authority  of  health  and  wealth  and  happiness, 
leaning  toward  llattie  Lane  and  talking  elegantly  and 
well.     Walton  sighed,  sliouk  his  head,  and  went  on. 

The  man  put  this  fact  and  that  fact  together,   tied 


AN   OPEN   HEAllT.  45 

tlicm  np  with  fancy,  fastened  tlicm  toii^ctlier  with  a  sort 
(»f  iniai:;inaiy  cement,  and  canic  certainly  to  the  conclu- 
sion tliat  tliis  girl,  this  strangely  beautiful  child,  with  the 
pitiful  rosehud  face,  had  been  foully  dealt  with. 

lie  crossed  over  to  the  west,  past  the  Victoria,  across 
T>road\vay,  across  Sixth  Avenue,  and  so  on  down  that 
dreadful  block  on  Twenty-seventh  Street  to  Seventh 
Avenue. 

The  j)lace  was  dimly  lighted.  The  police  were  studi- 
ously invisible.  Strange,  pitiful  faces  met  his,  and 
looked  up  and  begged  for  money. 

From  every  door,  window,  cellar,  or  garret  peered 
painted  faces  of  all  shades  of  complexion.  All  kinds  of 
voices,  in  all  tongues,  appealed  to  the  man  to  enter  as 
he  hastened  on  down  the  dark  and  bewildering  street. 

Was  she  in  one  of  these  wretched  places  ?  "Was  she 
buried  in  this  cellar^  or  carried  to  that  garret,  to  be 
watched  and  kept  for  days,  weeks,  years,  with  these 
strange  and  imearthly  inhabitants,  who  are  visible  only  at 
night  i 

The  nuui  caught  sight  of  a  cab  and  heard  voices  down 
the  street  in  the  dark.  lie  ran  forward  as  fast  as  pos- 
sil)le,  holding  a  pistol  in  his  great-coat  pocket  ;  but  it 
was  only  a  drunken  party  of  men  who  had  come  in  from 
some  country  town,  and  were  "  seeing  the  sights."  The 
man  walked  up  and  down  through  many  of  these  dim 
and  dangerous  streets,  even  up  to  Thirty-second  Street. 
Seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing  of  the  object  of  his 
search,  he  hastened  (jn  up  Broadway  to  Fiftieth  Street, 
and  there  crossed  over  and  strode  up  Fifth  Avenue. 

He  stood  before  a  great  brown-stone  palace,  here  on 
the  right,  and  waited  and  watched,  and  watched  and 
waited.  At  length  he  saw  ^lathcrson  enter  there  in  great 
haste,     lie   had  at   his  side  the  wealthiest   man  in  tiie 


46  THE    DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTUAM. 

world — a  man  wliose  ^-reat  bii^  red  lists  clutched  ti<j;litly 
on  to  fortune  in  all  other  places  save  this,  lest  one  single 
dollar  might  slip  from  his  grasp.  When  Walton  saw 
these  two  enter  here,  he  knew  too  well  who  had  preceded 
them.  He  sighed  at  her  fate,  at  his  own  helplessness, 
and  sadly  shook  his  head. 

He  went  back  and  about  his  duties,  still  shaking  his 
head,  still  putting  this  and  that  together,  then  taking  his 
fabric  all  to  2)ieces  and  putting  it  together  again  in  quite 
another  way.  And  every  way  he  could  iix  it  he  could 
see  that  old  woman,  that  handsome  man  of  the  ferry- 
boat, the  sweet  and  helpless  Madonna  face,  the  big  red- 
faced  man  with  the  big,  tightly-closed  fat  hands  ;  and 
he  knew  there  was  a  story  there  to  be  told  some  day  that 
would  put  civilization  to  shame. 

And  so  with  this  conviction  settled  well  and  firmly  in 
his  heart,  he  gave  Tip  all  immediate  pursuit  of  his  pur- 
pose in  that  direction  as  the  days,  weeks,  months  went 

It  was  quite  two  years  from  these  events,  as  we  have 
already  said,  that  Walton,  walking  hastily  through  Cen- 
tral Park,  saw  the  face  of  little  "  Dottie  "  looking  up  at 
him  from  one  of  the  benches  by  the  path. 

At  her  feet  in  the  grass  played  a  child.  This  child 
was  very,  very  beautiful. 

It  was  prettily  dressed,  too.  About  its  neck  was  a 
little  gold  chain,  from  which  hung  a  small  battered 
htcket.  This  chain  nn'ght  have  been  worn  at  one  time 
by  the  child- woman  called  Dottie. 


CHAPTER  yi. 

AN   OPEN    HAND. 

WiiETnER  the  scribe,  this  one  of  a  new  and  numerous 
force,  a  growth  of  this  century  entirely,  if  not  alone  of 
tliis  generation,  is  observant  because  he  is  a  scribe,  or  re- 
porter, or  wliether  he  is  a  reporter  because  he  is  a  close 
oljserver,  is  hardly  a  question. 

Yet  this  ol)serving  man  knew  the  dark  and  pitiful  yet 
very  beautiful  face  before  him  perfectly.  lie  had  not 
seen  it  for  two  years,  but  had  sought  for  it  all  that  time. 

Very  quietly  he  took  a  seat  at  tlie  farther  end  of  the 
iron  l)ench.  lie  fixed  his  eyes  for  a  moment  on  the  little 
doll  of  a  baby  playing  in  its  pretty  red  dress  on  the  clean 
green  grass  at  the  girl's  feet,  and  then  glanced  at  the 
girl-woman  at  his  side.  There  was  a  singularly  striking 
resemblance. 

"  It  is  my  little  niece,  sir  !" 

The  girl  said  this  hurriedly,  and  as  she  spoke  the 
lilood  mantled  to  her  face  and  suffused  it  with  a  radiance 
that  made  her  even  more  beautiful  than  before. 

Men  may  take  all  sorts  of  innocent  liberties  with  little 
cliildren. 

They  are  stepping-stones  by  which  we  can  M-alk  up 
and  into  any  mother's  heart  in  this  world. 

*'  She  has  your  eyes,"  answered  the  man,  as  he  took 
the  little  thing  between  his  knees. 

*'  She  is  my  little  niece,  sir." 

After  a  moment  he  glanced  at  the  girl  again,  but  she 


48  THE   DESTRUCTION   OP   GOTHAif. 

did  not  look  up.  Her  great  wondering  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  tlie  grass  at  lier  feet.  The  blood  had  gone  from 
her  face.  She  was  pale,  and  the  old  frightened  look 
came  back. 

She  rose  up,  took  the  child  tenderly  by  the  hand,  and 
witliout  a  word  turned  away. 

The  man,  with  instinctive  politeness,  arose  as  she  arose. 
He  lifted  his  hat  courteously,  and  bowed  very  unobtru- 
sively as  she  moved  a  few  steps  up  the  path. 

She  paused  here,  turned  about,  and  came  part  of  the 
way  back.  The  man's  quiet  politeness  had  conquered 
her  and  put  her  at  perfect  ease. 

Perhaps  she  had  not  been  used  to  this  for  a  long,  long 
time. 

"  I  think  there  is — is  a  better  view  of  the  obelisk  and 
the  carriages  and  the — the  people  a  little  farther  up  the 
path  ;  and  1  think  I — I — we  can  find  a  seat  up  there." 

There  was  a  far-away  look  in  her  great  eyes  all  this 
time  as  she  stood  there,  talking  and  hesitating,  doubting, 
half  fearing,  dreading  she  knew  not  what. 

She  now  and  then  glanced  down  the  wooded  drive 
where  the  carriages  came  pouring  in  and  up  the  park, 
like  a  flood-tide,  for  the  afternoon  drive. 

She  was  looking  for  some  one,  the  man  thought,  as 
she  moved  up  the  pretty  path  and  sat  down  by  the  full- 
flowing  stream  of  gorgeous  carriages  and  prancing  horses. 

The  girl  set  the  child  between  them  on  the  bench. 
She  did  not  speak,  but  kept  up  her  eager  glance  uj)  and 
down  the  sweeping,  whirling  drive. 

"  "What  is  her  name  ?" 

"DoUie." 

"  Dollie  ?  It  is  a  pretty  name — almost  as  pretty  as 
she  is  ;   and  that  is  saying  it  is  very  pretty  indeed." 

The  girl's  face  glowed  with  pleasure,  and  she  lifted 


AK  OPEN"   HAND.  49 

her  great,  sad  eyes  to  tlic  man  and  looked  at  liini  grate- 
fully. 

*'  But  Dollie  what  ?  DoUie  is  a  dear  little  name,  but 
it  is  not  enough  of  a  name,"'  said  the  man,  half  smiling. 

The  girl  hastily  arose,  turned,  took  up  the  child,  and 
moved  to  the  extreme  edge  of  the  scat. 

The  old  trouble  swept  over  her  face,  and  she  twisted 
her  liands  together  nervously,  and  bit  her  great  rich  lips 
M'itli  evident  displeasure. 

She  looked  far  down  the  line  of  carriages — looked 
across  at  the  crowd  of  merry  children  riding  the  little 
ponies,  driving  the  goats  in  carriages,  and  still  farther 
on  lier  eyes  fastened  for  a  time  on  the  snowy  flock  of 
sheep  sliding  their  black  noses  along  the  short  green  grass. 

The  man  took  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  began  to 
read. 

The  child  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  slid- 
ing down  from  its  mother's  side,  toddled  along  the  side 
of  the  bench,  holding  on  carefully  and  looking  up  all  the 
time. 

She  finally  wedged  herself  in  between  the  man's  knees 
and  stood  there,  still  and  satisfied,  as  he  read  on. 

Surely  this  was  no  spoiled  child.  This  child  had 
never  clambered  on  any  man's  knees,  ])ulled  his  M'atch- 
chain,  and  taken  him  by  the  beard.  All  this  the  re[)orter 
thought  out  very  clearly  as  lie  pretended  to  read  on. 

*'  Just  Dollie,  that's  all."  The  girl  said  this  half  to 
hei-self,  yet  loud  enough  for  the  man  to  hear. 

He  lieard  her  perfectly,  but  read  on. 

After  awhile,  with  another  look  down  the  incoming 
line  of  splendid  equi])ages,  she  half  arose  and  came  close 
to  the  man,  as  if  she  would  relieve  him  of  the  troul)le  of 
the  child.  He  only  seemed  to  read  more  intently  than 
before. 


50  THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

"  Only  Dollie.  That's  all  tlie  name  she's  got  now. 
And  she's  my  little  niece,  sir." 

The  seal  of  silence  had  not  yet  been  broken  on  that 
sweet  babe's  lips. 

God's  finger,  jjlaced  there  when  she  left  His  presence 
in  heaven,  lest  slie  might  tell  of  the  glories  there  before 
she  had  qnite  forgotten  them,  had  not  yet  been  lifted, 
and  she  could  speak  no  word  yet. 

The  secrets  of  all  heaven  and  of  all  earth  too  were 
safe  with  her. 

If  she  had  any  other  name  than  Dollie  she  might  no 
more  tell  of  it  than  the  dead. 

All  this  and  many  other  strange  and  kindly  fancies 
swept  throngh  the  man's  mind  as  he  seemed  to  merge 
soul  and  body  in  his  paper. 

The  carriages,  black  and  glistening  in  the  afternoon 
sun  far  down  the  great  evening  drive  below,  were  fairly 
packed  in  a  solid  mass  from  bank  to  bank  of  green  trees, 
and  as  far  almost  toward  the  city  as  the  eye  could  reach. 
There  was  a  roll  and  sound  as  of  an  inflowing  sea. 

Far  away  to  the  south,  and  still  nearer  to  the  east  and 
the  west,  the  mighty  voice  of  progress,  the  building,  the 
peopling  of  a  city,  rolled  and  resounded. 

The  man  read  on.  The  child's  little  dimpled  hand 
had  wandered  to  its  own  throat,  in  the  absence  of  other 
employment,  and  played  with  the  locket  fastened  to  a 
gold  chain  about  its  neck. 

The  two  chubby  hands  pulled  at  the  chain  until  it  was 
buried  in  the  folds  about  the  fat  little  neck,  and  the 
child  began  to  cry. 

"  Hello,  Dollie,  Dollie  ?  Dollie,  what's  your  name  ? 
What  is  the  matter  now  ?" 

The  girl's  brow  grew  dark  instantly,  and  taking  the 
child  up  hastily  she  went  straight  away. 


AN"    OPKX    HAXn.  51 

Once  she  turned  lialf  around,  and  looked  at  tlie  man 
with  such  a  perplexed  and  bewildered  air  that  lie  felt 
certain  her  nn'nd  was  sadly  shaken.  In  fact,  from  the 
(ii'st  he  read  in  her  great  eyes  that  reason  was  doubtful 
of  its  throne. 

The  num  greatly  feared  she  would  not  come  back. 
Yet  had  he  attempted  to  follow  her  she  woidd  have  fled. 

Had  he  even  risen  from  his  seat  at  that  moment  she 
would  have  run  away  and  hidden  herself  and  that  patient, 
silent  child  in  any  one  of  the  thousand  turns  and  angles 
of  the  deep  and  delicious  paths  about  them. 

Suddenly  the  girl  came  back  from  quite  another  direc- 
tion— a  moth  about  a  candle.  She  stood  near  him  a 
moment,  and  tlien  impetuously  sat  down  beside  him. 

"  I  called  her  Dollie  because  they  did.  When  they 
brought  her  to  me  they  said  it  was  a  doll.  That  was 
over  yonder  on  the  island." 

The  girl  looked  M'ildly  about  her,  and  then  leaning 
forward,  she  went  on  hurriedly  as  she  now  and  then 
glanced  swiftly  up  and  down  the  tremendous  inflowing 
tide  of  wealth  and  splendor. 

"  You  see  these  peojjle  on  this  big  island  send  people 
over  yonder  to  that  little  island  when  they  want  to  get 
them  away,  because  there  are  more  of  them  on  the  big 
island  than  on  the  little  island,  and  they  can  do  as  they 
please.  That  is  why  I  was  sent  there,  (^h,  it  was 
dreadful — it  was  dreadful  I'' 

Here  the  girl  pressed  her  hands  upon  her  eyes,  as  if 
to  shut  the  vision  from  her. 

"  They  sent  two  women  into  my  cell  to  watch  mo. 
AVell,  they  got  to  flghting.  They  were  very  cra/.y. 
Then  another  woman  came.  She  was  kind  to  me.  Ihit 
what  do  you  think  ?  She  was  crazy,  too.  She  had  been 
there  nine  years  I     And   then   thenj  was  u  place  there 


52  THE    DEStRLX'TIOX    OF    GOTHAM. 

wliere  tliey  were  just  awful.  They  were  in  iron  boxes 
— long  iron  boxes  with  big,  strong  bars.  And  these  ones 
had  long  poles  with  corn-hiisks  tied  on  the  ends,  like 
mops.  Tliej  would  push  these  along  on  the  floor  all  the 
time.  And  do  you  know,  after  Dollie  was  sent  to  nie  to 
take  care  of  by — by — l)y  my  sister,  you  know,  why,  1 
would  not  stay  there.  No,  indeed,  1  wouldn't  !  I  told 
them  it  was  no  place  to  bring  up  a  child  in  !  And  I  was 
right,  wasn't  1  ?" 

The  reporter  looked  at  licr  kindly,  tenderly,  pitifully, 
gently  nodded  assent,  and  she  went  on  : 

"  At  last,  wlien  they  would  not  let  me  out,  but  told 
uie  I  was  crazy,  why,  1  wouldn't  eat.  Then  the  food 
was  so  bad.  And  one  day  I  said  :  '  Look  here  ;  if  I 
were  to  eat  that  stuff  I  would  be  giving  you  proof 
enough  that  I  am  crazy.  Z^o,  indeed  ;  I've  got  too  nmch 
sense  to  eat  that  ! '  This  showed  them  plain  enough 
that  I  was  not  crazy,  you  see.  And  then  pretty  soon 
tliey  let  me  out,  and  they  told  me  to  bring  Dollie  along 
and  keep  her  till  sister  came  to  take  her  away." 

The  girl's  voice  had  fallen  to  a  whisper  as  she  hurried 
on  in  her  wild  way,  glancing  up  and  down,  back  and  be- 
fore, as  for  some  one  whom  she  was  expecting  to  see 
pass.  "When  she  stopped,  she  crowded  down  in  the 
farther  end  of  the  seat,  took  the  child  in  her  arms,  and 
sat  very  still. 

Iler  dress  was  threadbare — threadbare  as  the  coat  of 
the  man  at  her  side.  Her  shoes  were  badly  worn.  Her 
face  was  pale  and  ashen  now.  Possibly  her  face  was  pale 
from  hunger. 

The  man  with  thumb  and  finger  dug  out  a  piece  of 
silver  from  his  vest-pocket  and  put  it  in  the  baby's  hand. 

"  Go  and  get  something  to  eat  yonder  and  come 
back." 


AN   OPEN"    nAXD.  53 

Tlic  fjjirl  slowly  shook  lier  head.  She  looked  anxiously 
ahoiit.     Surely  she  was  waitiiii;;  for  some  one. 

Horsemen,  ladies,  too,  on  horseback,  dashed  in  a  dizzy 
crescent  of  deep  and  hanging  greenwood  around  the 
little  hill,  close  to  where  they  sat.  Some  of  the  horses' 
feet  sent  the  gravel  flying  and  rattling  on  the  iron  bench 
where  they  were. 

The  .child  clapped  its  chubby  hands  ;  but  the  girl 
kept  her  eyes  on  the  great  black  mass  of  moving  car- 
riages. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  great 
drive  was  at  full  tide,  and  where  the  horses  were  tinest 
and  fastest,  there  was  a  sensation,  a  buzz  and  munuur  of 
excitement  all  along  the  line  and  clap[)ing  of  hands  from, 
the  crowds  that  lined  the  dense  and  endless  crush  of 
carriages. 

There  sat  Stone,  the  impassive,  l)lack  and  tranquil, 
cold  and  bloodless  Stone,  the  great  Wall  Street  sj)ecu- 
lator  and  wrecker  of  railroads.  lie  held  his  reins  with 
precision,  and  drove  straight  ahead  and  swiftly,  with 
calm  and  affected  unconcern. 

Many  remarks  were  passed  as  the  small,  black,  cold, 
and  constantly  shivering  s])eculator  passed. 

"  The  Lord  filled  him  with  promises,'"  sighed  a  pastor 
in  rather  oily  broadcloth,  "  but  the  devil  filled  him  with 
f  orgetf  ulness. " 

A  man  who  sat  on  an  iron  bench  and  heard  this,  whis- 
pereil  :   ''  That  parson  has  been  to  Wall  Street." 

But  close  after  Stone  came  the  richest  railroad  mag- 
nate in  the  world.  He  was  the  hero,  the  sensation  of 
the  day.  He  w;u-^  holding  tight  to  his  reins  with  his  two 
big  red  hands,  smiling  a  v;ist  and  massive  smile  on  the 
crowds.  His  hands  were  closed  tight — so  tight  !  So 
close  and  tight,  hard  and  close  and  tight  constantly  and 


54  THE   DESTUUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

forever.  Hard  and  tight  and  close,  never  to  be  opened 
this  side  tlie  door  of  deatli,  lest  one  of  the  hundred  mill- 
ions might  slip  from  his  hand  and  fall  at  the  feet  of  the 
people  who  deified  him  for  his  gold.  This  was  the  heart 
and  soul  of  the  great  city. 

Hours  had  gone  by.  The  shadows  lay  long  and  rest- 
ful within  the  park.  Some  of  these  shadows  seemed 
sinking  into  the  earth  a*^  in  a  grave.  They  seeuied  so 
tired,  ready  to  lie  down  forever. 

The  flock  of  sheep  had  moved  like  a  white  cloud  quite 
across  the  green  fields  and  gone  to  rest.  Tliebaby  slept, 
weary,  worn,  lying  in  the  girl's  arms.  The  man  read 
his  paper  as  before.  The  girl  waited,  waited,  yet  sl>e 
still  kept  her  great,  sad  eyes  turned  upon  the  stream  of 
inflowing  humanity. 

Suddenly  she  sprang  to  her  feet.  She  forgot  the  man 
at  her  side.  She  did  not  see  the  park  ofliicer  as  he 
passed.  The  child  asleep  in  her  arms  was  as  a  feather 
in  weight  to  her  now.  The  dashing  circle  of  horsemen 
were  in  the  way.  She  hoisted  her  little  charge  in  her 
arms  and  held  it  high  in  the  air,  reaching,  leaning,  tij?- 
toeing  up,  her  face  radiant  with  love  and  hope  and  fear, 
her  glorious  eyes  glowing  with  uncommon  fire,  her  Avhole 
frame  quivering  and  trembling  with  a  wild  delight. 

The  eyes  of  a  handsome  man,  in  a  gorgeous  turnout, 
lifted  to  the  child,  then  dropped  to  the  linen  robe  on  his 
knees.  It  was  JMatherscn.  The  whij)  which  he  had 
been  gayly  whirling  in  the  air  sank,  and  the  lines  relaxed. 

It  was  only  a  moment.  The  carriage  M'hirled  past  ; 
the  trees  shut  them  out — the  handsome  man  and  the 
matchless  lady  at  his  side — almost  instantly  ;  and  the 
girl  with  the  child  sank  down  in  her  place,  more  dead 
than  alive. 

Then  she  snatched  the  chain  from  the  child's  neck. 


AN"   OPEN"   HANI).  55 

Any  otlicr  cliild  so  suddenly  and  rudely  distnrhed  in  its 
sleep  would  have  cried  out  in  alarm.  This  child  did  not 
cry  at  all.  It  only  nestled  closer  to  the  beating  lieart, 
to  he  certain  it  was  there.     Then  it  sle})t  again. 

This  time  the  man  did  not  try  to  read  his  paper.  Ilow 
could  he  read  after  seeing  the  beautiful  face  of  llattie 
Lane  ?  And  to  see  her  with  that  man,  too  !  Yery 
miserable  was  Walton  now. 

lie  fell  to  thiidcing.  He  put  this  and  that  together, 
as  usual,  making  a  world  of  romance  out  of  this  one 
single  ugly  fact.  Then  he  half  smiled,  sighed,  and  moved 
close  to  the  girl.  This  time  she  did  not  leave  the  seat. 
She  did  not  even  seem  displeased. 

Now,  at  last,  there  was  a  bond  between  them  ;  and 
although  she  did  not  understand  it,  he  knew  that  she 
would  not  break  it.     Both  were  so  miserable. 

He  loved  llattie  Lane.  She  loved  the  handsome  man 
at  her  side  in  the  carriage.  The  two  in  the  park  had 
each  a  grief.  Why  should  they  not  be  miserable  to- 
gether ? 

The  girl  clutched  the  broken  chain  convulsively.  The 
coin  -which  the  reporter  had  given  to  the  child  had  fallen 
to  the  gromid.  He  picked  it  up  and  put  it  in  one  of  the 
child's  closed  hands. 

*'  Did  you  see  that  beautiful  woman,  sir  ?"  The  girl 
looked  at  the  reporter  and  saw  that  he  too  was  troubled 
in  his  heart.  But  she  did  not  at  all  suspect  the  cause. 
After  awhile  she  continued  :  "  And  don't  you  think  she 
is  very,  very  pretty  ?  Well,  she  is  that  man's  sister. 
Yes,  he  told  me  so.  But  oh  !  she  is  so  proud  and  cold 
and  hard  and  cruel.  She  won't  even  let  him  look  at 
me." 

"  And  you  knov.'  tliat  man  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no  I     And  if  I  did  know  him,  whv,  1  shuuld 


56  THH    DKSTUUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

liate  liiin  ! — liiite  liim  ! — liato  liiiii  !  Look  liere  !  do  jou 
see  tliis  ?" 

The  girl  tlirust  the  little  chain  and  locket  into  his 
hand.  "  Here,  take  it — take  it  !  It  had  a  picture  in  it 
once.  I  broke  tliat  out.  I  broke  it  with  my  heel  last 
week.  You  must  take  this.  Take  it,  1  tell  you,  or  I 
will  throw  it  in  tlie  lake  yonder,  with  the  swans  !  Yes, 
and  I'll  throw  your  money  with  it,  too.  You  can't  give 
me  or  my  child  money  for  nothing,  I  tell  you  !  Ah  !  I 
am  proud,  Dollie  and  I.      Take  it  !" 

The  man  took  the  chain  as  it  was  almost  forced  into 
his  hand,  but  did  not  speak. 

lie  held  the  little  battered  locket  and  tiny  chain,  and 
was  then  about  to  put  the  trinket,  unobserved,  in  his 
pocket.  Instinctively  looking  to  see  where  the  worn 
little  boot  heel  liad  crushed  the  glass,  he  read  there  a 
name — John  Matherson. 

lie  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief,  of  savage  satisfaction. 
Then  he  arose  and  said  :  "  We  will  tjo  and  <ret  some- 
thing  to  cat  together. " 

He  made  this  very  prosaic  and  practical  remark  with 
that  firmness  and  ijrecision  which  people  in  the  girl's 
state  of  mind  rarely  fail  to  obey.  The  girl  followed 
without  a  word,  holding  tlie  child  to  her  heart. 

As  the  sun  went  down  in  the  west,  like  some  £:reat, 
wicked  world  on  fire,  these  two  people  plodded  silentlj 
out  at  one  of  the  seven  great  gates  of  this  great  park 
tosrether. 


CHAPTER  YII. 


A    BOIIKMIAX    AT    DIXNEK. 


Walton,  the  newspaper  man,  was  a  bit  thoughtful  as 
lie  walked  slowly  along  that  evening  from  the  park  witli 
tlie  beautiful  waif  at  his  side.  His  thoughts  were  of  a 
very  practical  (piality,  too. 

lie  looked  at  the  girl,  as  she  led  her  child,  or  lifted 
her  in  her  arms,  from  under  his  broad  slouch  hat,  and 
Unally  seemed  to  settle  some  vexed  fpiestion  very  deli- 
nitely  in  his  mind. 

Tiie  man  had  been  mechanically  clinking  two  coins 
together  in  his  pocket  as  he  walked  and  thought.  Once, 
twice,  thrice  his  hand  had  left  his  pocket  and  wandered 
up  and  down  into  his  breast-pocket,  his  vest-pocket,  and 
finally  back  to  where  it  started  from. 

Each  time  the  man  had  sighed  just  a  little.  Each 
time,  too,  the  quiet  girl  moving  along  at  his  side  had 
half  lifted  her  great,  drooping,  timid  eyes  to  his  with 
curious  inquiry  and  interest. 

The  man  had  sought  in  vain  to  find  another  coin,  if 
ever  so  small,  anywhere  about  his  person.  F'or  had  he 
not  invited  the  weary  waif  and  the  little  child-waif,  too, 
to  dine  with  him  ?  And  where  could  a  gentleman  take 
a  lady  to  dine  in  New  York  on  two  coins  ? 

But  after  he  hail  looked  at  her  a  second  time  carefully, 
noted  her  soiled  dress,  her  broken  and  broadened  shoes, 
and  her  broad  and  ancient  hat  with  its  desjioiled  feather, 
he  decided,  with  evident  satisfaction  to  himself,  that  he 


58  THE    DESTRUCTION    OF   GOTHAM. 

could  not  well  be  expected  to  take  her  to  a  place  of  any 
great  pretension. 

It  may  be  noted  here,  by  way  of  parenthesis,  that  the 
little  child  was  dressed  well,  even  with  costly  ele- 
gance. 

One  is  here  reminded  of  a  certain  bird  in  the  far 
frozen  north,  which  tears  the  feathers  from  her  own 
breast  to  make  a  nest  for  her  young. 

This  Bohemian  had  had,  only  a  little  time  before,  three 
coins  in  his  pocket.  One  of  these,  it  may  be  remem- 
bered, he  had  given  to  the  child,  and  thereby  given  the 
girl  some  pretence  for  forcing  the  now  hated  chain  which 
was  worn  about  the  child's  neck  into  his  keeping. 

The  child  now  held  the  one  silver  coin  in  its  chubby 
little  hand — held  hard  to  it,  tightly,  as  if  trying  to  learn 
the  first  letter  in  the  alphabet  of  the  one  supreme  lesson 
of  this  gold-getting  city. 

The  man,  too,  was  holding  hard  to  one  of  the  two 
coins  in  his  pocket.  He  was  resolved  to  not  part  with 
this  one  coin  on  any  condition  whatever.  It  held  a  cher- 
ished sentiment.  It  meant  ever  so  much  U)  him.  It  had 
been  in  his  pocket  full  half  a  year,  ^[any  and  many  a 
time  had  this  man  gone  without  his  dinner,  with  this 
coin  in  his  pocket.  He  had  walked  many  a  mile,  and 
many  and  many  for  want  of  a  five-cent  piece  for  car 
fare,  clutching  all  the  time  this  single  coin  in  his  pocket. 

But  it  is  not  so  very  hard  to  walk  under  such  circum- 
stances. One  is  a  great  deal  stronger  widi  the  consola- 
tion that  he  has  money  in  hand. 

One  can  even  go  hungry  with  comparative  impunity 
with  a  gold  eagle  hiding  solidl}'  and  safely  down  in  the 
deepest  recesses  of  one's  pocket. 

One  can  always  talk  with  stately  confidence  to  his 
employer,   and  ask   a   larger   price  for  his  work  ;  can 


A    IJOIIK.MIAN'    AT    DIXN'KK.  59 

lioM  liis  licad  a  full  inch  higher  on  the  street,  with  a 
solid  eagle  in  his  pocket  that  refuses  to  fly  away. 

But  there  was  much  more  than  all  this  conspiring  to 
keep  tliis  golden  eagle  in  the  pocket  of  this  reporter. 
It  had  a  sentiment  ahout  it  which  was  sacred. 

And  this  is  tJie  little  story  of  it  : 

Inspired  hy  the  beauty,  the  quiet  power,  the  perfect 
womanhood  and  absolute  loveliness  of  Ilattie  Lane,  he 
had  written  a  little  poem.  He  had  written  it  of  her — to 
her.  Yet  he  had  never  dared  show  it  to  her — to  any 
one.  jS'o  one  but  himself  knew  its  source  or  its  secret 
inspiration. 

He  had  kept  it  long.  It  was  his  heart,  his  child. 
Then  one  day,  when  desperately  ])uor,  he  sold  it.  It 
was  like  selling  one's  child.  It  brought  him  twenty 
dollars.  He  got  this  one  gold  piece.  He  had  turned 
his  love  for  Ilattie  Lane  into  gold  ;  but  not  to  part  with 
it.  He  would  keep  this  forever  ;  it  was  company  for 
him  ;  confldcnce  ;  a  companion  at  more  times  and  in 
more  ways  than  you  would  care  to  be  told,  perhaps. 

The  two  entered  a  small  restaurant  in  silence,  the 
girl  following  wherever  the  man  led,  and  keeping  her 
great  eyes  to  the  ground.  The  child  liad  long  since 
(piite  given  out.  The  man  was  now  carrying  the  sleep- 
ing child  in  his  arms. 

A  stout  German,  with  a  low  brow  and  liigh  cheek- 
bones, beckoned  them  far  back  and  out  of  the  way  to  a 
little  table  in  the  corner. 

He  did  not  seem  pleased  at  all  to  see  these  doubtful 
customers.  Perhaps  he  was  afraid  the  child  would  cry 
and  disturb  the  boisterous  party  whose  mirth  and  bursts 
of  lauechter  near  the  door  seemed  to  call  the  attention  of 
passers-by  and  encourage  patronage. 

The  man  seated  the  girl,  gave  her  the  child,  sat  down 


GO  THE    DE.STULCTIO.V    Ob'    GOTHAM. 

in  a  sliy  ^md  quiet  way  on  tlie  opposite  side  of  tlie  tahle, 
and  taking  up  the  cufTee-stained,  greasy,  and  tiy-specked 
bill  of  fare,  began  in  a  pensive  and  delicate  way  to  see 
just  how  far  the  piece  of  silver  would  go. 

Fortunately,  it  was  a  full  silver  dollar.  But  then  he 
must  save  something  to  get  down-town  with.  It  was 
something  to  know  that  at  this  hour  the  elevated  road 
was  running  at  half  fare.  It  would  only  require  five 
cents.  The  little  child  held  on  to  the  half  dollar  firndy, 
even  in  its  sleep. 

The  girl  was  faint  from  hunger.  The  man  could  see 
this  from  under  his  broad  hat  without  looking  twice. 
The  baby,  too,  must  eat.  Surely  it  was  as  hungry  even 
as  himself,  and  that  was  supposing  it  to  be  hungry  indeed. 

"  Chops,  twenty-five  cents  ;  that  makes  fifty.  Bread, 
ten  cents  ;  that  makes  seventy.  A  glass  of  milk,  five 
cents  each  ;  that  makes  eighty.  Soup — a  plate  of  ])earl- 
barley  soup  for  the  baby — fifteen  cents  ;  glorious  !  That 
makes  it  all  only  ninety-five  cents  !     Good  !" 

The  man's  spirits  went  up  gayly  as  he  ordered  the 
dinner. 

When  the  milk  was  brought  he  pushed  back  his  broad 
hat  leisurely  ;  then  he  took  it  off  and  laid  it  down  on  a 
bench  at  his  side. 

IJe  did  this  reverently.  It  Wiis  to  him  a  sort  of  grace 
and  giving  of  thanks  to  God. 

Ilis  bared  head  was  shapely.  Ilis  forehead  was  broad, 
high,  benevolent.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  gray  about 
the  temples.  He  was  also  getting  bald.  The  man  was 
not  handsome  at  all  ;  and  yet  he  was  entirely  so.  lie 
had  a  crisp,  sandy  beard. 

He  had  once  said  to  a  fellow  scribe  that  he  never  yet 
had  had  time  to  shave.  Perhaps  he  had  had  more  time 
than  money. 


A    noIIKMlAK    AT    DINKKR.  61 

Tlie  girl,  still  holding  the  sleeping  cliild  in  lier  laj), 
lifted  the  milk  to  her  ri(;h  lips,  half  bowed  her  acknowl- 
edgments to  her  strange  com|)anion,  and,  smiling  faintly, 
touched  the  glass  and  set  it  down.  The  man  drank  oil 
his  glass  almost  at  a  single  quaff. 

He  wa.s  now  in  glorious  spirits.  lie  set  the  heavy 
glass  down  with  such  force  on  the  tahle  that  the  iKjise 
sounded  away  oil'  to  where  the  stout  German  with  the 
high  cheek-hones  and  low  brow  was  washing  tumblers 
behind  the  l)ar. 

He  came  forward,  pushing  down  his  dirty  sleeves  over 
his  great,  fat  elbows. 

The  girl,  following  the  man's  example,  also  drank  her 
cool,  refreshing  milk,  and  set  down  the  ghiss  as  the  fat 
German  with  the  low  brow  and  high  cheek-bones  stood 
there  pressing  down  his  sleeve  and  waiting  for  his  order 
to  till  the  glasses. 

Suddenly  dismay  swept  over  the  face  of  the  Bohemian. 
His  sensitive  nature  was  now  set  all  on  edge.  There 
was  no  more  comfort  for  him  there.  lie  put  out  his  left 
hand  and  half  pushed  the  stout  German  back  out  of  his 
way  and  toward  the  bar. 

There  would  not  be  a  nickel  for  the  waiter,  even,  iu)w. 

He  did  not  want  any  more  milk. 

"  ^lilk  is  a  coarse  drink  ;  don't  vou  think  so,  Dot- 
tie  r 

"  Beastly.''  She  had  learned  this  from  some  of  her 
would-be  English  i)eaux.    ■ 

"  (ilad  to  hear  you  say  so.  Here,  take  away  these 
glasses.  And  now  for  the  cho{)s  and  bread — and — and 
the  barley-soup  for  the  baity." 

Without  even  as  much  a.s  a  sigh  of  impatience,  the 
l.ttle  child  wakenc(l  up  as  the  girl  bent  down  her  fiwre 
over  her  and  whispered  kindly,  lovingly,  such  words  of 


62  THE    DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

tenderness  as  none  but  a  mother  can  fashion  at  such  a 
moment. 

Where  had  the  weary  little  soul  of  this  sweet  child 
Nvandered  to  all  this  time  ?  Had  it  gone  back  to  God  ? 
Gone  back  to  the  other  side  of  the  great  mystery  ? 
Crossed  the  mighty  river  on  whose  banks  we  all  lie 
down  to  rest  wdien  worn  and  wearied  beyond  endurance 
upon  this  earth  ? 

Ah  !  mysterious  and  terrible  is  death — this  going 
out  of  the  soul  to  the  untold  somewhere,  this  leaving 
tlie  tired  body  to  never  return  any  more,  forever  and 
forever. 

But  tlie  mystery  of  sleep  is  to  me  still  more  impres- 
sive, awful,  miraculous  ;  this  coming  back  of  the  soul 
from  the  untold  somewhere  is  to  me  far  more  miraculous 
than  all  the  dreadful  mysteries  of  death  ! 

I  can  only  conceive  that,  when  very  weary,  we  touch 
the  very  shores  of  the  river  of  death. 

I  think  that  when  our  feet  touch  the  waters  of  oblivion 
we  are  overtaken  by  what  we  call  sleep. 

The  soul  then  leaves  the  body  and  goes  out  on  the 
great  river,  voyaging  up  and  down,  and,  nuiybe,  far  on 
toward  the  other  shore  ;  and  then,  when  well  rested  and 
refreshed,  it  comes  back  to  the  waiting  body  by  the  river 
brink,  possesses  it  again,  and  so  goes  on  for  another  day, 
with  another  great  lesson  of  life.  And  finally,  when 
wearied  and  worn  unto  death,  the  body  lies  down  by 
tliis  same  great  river  of  oblivion,  and  the  soul  goes  out 
and  on  as  before  ;  only  this  time  never,  never  more 
to  return  to  the  toil,  the  trouble,  the  hard,  hard  lesson 
of  life. 

Surely  the  rivers  of  sleep  and  of  death  are  the  same. 

Surely  there  is  a  glorious,  all-glorious  shore  on  the 
other  side. 


A    IJOIIKMIAN    AT    DIXNKU,  63 

Ami  surely  that  is  tlio  reason  no  one  ever  coines  l)a(;k 
mIiu  has  been  so  tenfold  fortunate  as  to  land  there  after 
having  been  compelled  so  many  times  to  come  back  from 
this  same  river  of  dreams  and  of  cool,  comfortable 
death  to  the  dreadful  lessons  of  life. 

To  see  that  child  eat  ! 

All  the  wild  animal  was  aroused  at  the  sight  and  smell 
of  the  steaming  plate  of  barley  soup.  Her  eyes  blazed 
with  excitement.  Her  two  chubby  little  hands  went 
everywhere — up  and  down,  and  all  about,  with  wild  de- 
light. In  her  excitement  she  dropped  her  coin.  The* 
man  heard  it  fall  under  his  chair.  He  would  get  down 
on  his  knees  in  the  sawdust  after  dinner  and  pick  it  up. 
He  was  now  certain,  somehow,  that  this  was  the  girl's 
only  fortune,  her  only  bed  and  breakfast.  The  coin 
must  not  be  lost. 

The  chops  were  delicious — brown,  smoking-hot,  and 
on  hot  plates.      A  blessing  on  all  good  cooks  ! 

It  ought  to  be  remembered  that  the  man  who  first 
brought  Italian  opera  to  this  opulent  city  became  a  cook, 
died  a  cook. 

Alexander  Dumas  was  the  best  cook  in  a  city  of  cooks. 
It  takes  a  high  order  of  genius  to  do  a  chop  justice. 

liut  to  these  three  homeless  and  helpless  human  beings 
here  these  chops  had  one  great  fault  :  they  were  small — 
so  dismally  small  !  The  bread,  too,  was  good  ;  but 
when  they  had  eaten  their  chops  and  bread  it  seemed 
that  they  were  just  coming  to  their  appetites. 

It  was  with  infinite  satisfaction  that  the  num  saw  the 
child  was  entirely  satisKed.  It  was  so  tired,  however, 
so  disenchanted,  possibly,  with  this  life,  that  it  soon 
began  to  wander  down  to  the  bank  of  the  river  of 
dreams  and  sleep. 

The  man  more  than  once  saw  it  nod  its  little  head  and 


04  THE   DESTRUCTION   OP   GOTHAM. 

l)ec'kun  to  tlie  boatman  on   the  great  river  of  oblivion. 
Tlie  boatman  came. 

And  as  the  girl  took  the  little  baby  again  in  her  lap, 
the  little  soul,  leaving  a  smile  behind  it,  stepped  into 
the  boat  and  sailed  away  ;  songs  and  white  sails,  away, 
away,  and  away  ;  sleep  and  oblivion,  angels,  green  shores, 
and  God  ! 

*'  It  is  eating  too  much  that  gives  us  Americans  in- 
digestion," said  Walton,  with  much  show  of  wisdom 
and  calm  judgment,  as  he  pushed  back  his  empty  ])late. 

"  I  am  not  subject  to  indigestion  at  all,"  replied  the 
girl. 

"  You  must  not  put  yourself  in  danger  of  that  dread- 
ful affliction,"  said  AValton,  finally. 

"  Oh,  I  am  in  no  danger."  The  girl  meant  this 
kindly. 

The  man  hitched  about  in  his  seat,  and  after  an  awk- 
ward pause  took  up  his  broad  hat,  looked  at  the  inside, 
then  at  the  outside,  and  finally  placed  it  firmly  on  his  head. 

He  had  much  to  do,  and  must  be  going.  The  great 
and  influential  newspaper,  boasting  its  myiions  of  profits, 
paying  him  not  nearly  enough  to  keep  him  the  gentle- 
man he  was  by  nature,  needed  his  opinion — an  editorial 
on  the  mighty  events  of  the  day,  the  singular  govern- 
ment of  the  great  city.  There  was  a  great  strike,  talk 
of  riots,  rebellion  against  the  hard  and  lawless  govern- 
ment of  the  great  city. 

lie  must  be  going  now. 

Suddenly  the  man  turned  to  the  girl  with  the  sleeping 
child  in  her  arms.  Iler  head  was  sinking  to  her  breast  ; 
she,  too,  had  beckoned  to  the  boatman  on  the  river  of 
death  and  of  dreams. 

''  Where  will  you  sleep  ?" 


A    BniIKMIA>r    AT    DINNER.  05 

Slie  stiirted  a  little,  tried  to  smile,  l)ut  trouble  settled 
down  slowly  on  her  beautiful  face.  Her  eyes  fell  ;  she 
pretended  to  be  lookinc^  for  the  lost  coin. 

"  It  is  a  long  walk  uj)  from  the  Custom  House.  He 
is  there,  you  know." 

"  Who^' 

"  Oh,  I — I  don't  know  !  There  are  a  good  many  men 
down  there.  I  heard  a  man  call  it  the  refuge  down 
there.     AVhat  is  that  ^" 

The  poor  girl  w;us  rambling  in  her  talk,  and  not  (piite 
lierself.  She  drew  the  child  closer  to  her  breast,  and 
went  on  : 

"  I  walked  up  from  the  Custom  House,  and  it  was  too 
much  ;  oh,  so  far  !  The  park  is  good  for  Dollie.  The 
air  is  tine  there  ;  but  it  is  a  long  walk.  At  first  I 
thought  1  would  never  get  there.  You  see,  I  had  to 
carry  Dollie.  But  when  I  came  to  where  the  streets 
began  one,  two,  three — it  is  not  so  far  after  that.  You 
can  count  tliem  off  one  at  a  time,  and  that  makes  it  seem 
eliorter." 

"  And  what  were  you  doing  at  the  Custom  House  V 

The  girl's  face  flushed  witli  anger.  Then  it  was  all 
white  as  she  twisted  a  finger  in  the  shower  of  liair  which 
fell  from  the  child's  liead  down  over  her  arm,  and  was  a 
long  time  silent. 

But  at  last  she  lifted  her  head,  sighed,  looked  into  the 
man's  face,  and  becoming  more  contident  and  calm,  she 
went  on  nervously  :  "  Well,  you  see,  I  liave  a  friend 
there.  I  only  wanted  to  see  him.  But  lie  went  out  at 
the  other  door.  Then  I  knew  he  would  drive  with  his 
sister  in  the  park.  There  the  air  is  good  for  Dollie,  too. 
That  is  why  1  went  into  the  park." 

"  And  you  did  not  have  car  fare  ?" 

*'  Why,  you  see,  it  was  not  always  this  way.     After 


66  THE    DESTRUCTION   OP   GOTHAM. 

he — after — I  mean  I  did  have  work  in  a  paper-box  fac- 
tory ;  but  if  you  gpoil  a  box  you  must  pay  twice  what 
it  is  worth.  Some  of  the  poor  girls  get  in  debt  and  keep 
in  debt  there.  1  ran  away.  Then  I  got  work  in  a  cigar 
phice  ;  that  spoils  one's  fingei*s.  But  I  did  not  mind  tliat. 
There  they  don't  make  you  pay  for  spoiled  work.  They 
only  make  you  do  it  over.  But  the  woman  who  took 
care  of  Dollie  would  drink  gin,  and  I  was  afraid  she  might 
let  Dollie  get  hurt — and — and — ' ' 

The  girl  drew  lier  little  charge  closer  to  her  heart,  and 
burst  into  such  a  flood  of  tears  and  sobs  that  it  seemed 
her  heart  must  break. 

The  man  pretended  that  the  smoke  from  the  back 
kitchen  was  hurting  his  eyes.  He  went  up  to  the  fat 
man  behind  the  bar  to  get  away  from  the  weeping  girl. 

Yes,  the  German  with  the  low  brow  and  high  cheek- 
bones had  a  bed  and  a  little  garret  bedroom  np-stairs. 
lie  also  had  a  wife  and  many  little  chubby  children  al- 
most as  ugly  as  himself. 

Could  the  bed  be  let  for  money  to  this  girl  and  child  ? 

The  German  and  the  man  of  the  newsjiaper  came  back 
to  the  sobbing  girl  together.  She  stopped  sobbing,  drew 
the  child  closer  to  her  breast,  and  faintly  smiled  in  the 
face  of  her  friend,  looking  up  through  her  tears. 

"  I  am  going  now.  You  must  stay  here.  Let  me 
find  that  coin  your  child  dropped." 

"But  I  can't  stay  here.  I — I — it  was  only  half  a 
dollar." 

The  man  was  on  his  knees  in  the  sawdust,  feeling  all 
about.  At  length  he  sprang  up  with  something  in  his 
hand.     He  threw  this  on  the  table. 

"  Plere  is  money — plenty  of  money.  Your  wife  and 
your  babies,  and  you,  too,  must  take  care  of  her  till  1 
come  again.     Do  you  see  ?     It  is  a  twenty-dollar  gold 


A    r.OIIKMlAK    AT    DINNKH.  C? 

piece.  It  M'ill  pay  all — evcrytliiiit!;  for  a  whole  week. 
She  will  be  rested  then.     And  if  1  never  come  back — " 

"  Why,  no,  no,  no  !  It  was  a  piece  of  silver  the 
baby  had." 

"  It  was  gold — that  !  I  gave  you  that  for  the  gold 
chain  about  the  baby's  neck." 

"  And — and  is  it  worth  so  ranch  to  yon  ?" 

*'  Worth  so  much  to  me  ?  It  is  worth  ten  thousand 
eagles  of  gold — yes,  worth  ten  million  eagles  of  gold, 
for  with  that  chain  I  will  chain  him  down  as  never  man 
was  chained  on  this  earth  !" 

And  with  this  the  man  turned  away,  shot  out  the  door, 
and  in  another  moment  the  dazed  girl  with  the  child  in 
her  lap  saw  the  rumbling  cars  overhead  gliding  down 
their  avenue  of  air,  winding  in  and  out  like  a  mighty  ser- 
pent with  eyes  of  llame,  Hying  away  to  some  iip2)er 
world. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


PORPOISE  AND  OTHEK  FISHES. 


Off  the  Battery  this  sweet  and  sunny  morning  a  school 
of  dolphins  tumbled  up  the  noble  bay,  racing,  revelling, 
rejoicing,  glistening  in  the  sun  ;  but  not  a  soul  about 
the  splendid  Battery  to  look  at  them  or  delight  in  them 
save  an  old  sailor  or  two. 

In  England  men  seek  the  sea.  The  Bay  of  Naples  is 
not  more  beautiful  than  is  this  scene  from  the  once 
famous  Battery  of  New  York.  Yet  the  people  of  this 
city  retreat  inland.  They  never  see  the  ocean.  The 
English  see  nothing  else. 

But  then  the  English  are  a  nation  of  sailors.  The 
Neapolitans  are  a  race  of  fishermen.  Perhaps  in  our 
perished  commerce  we  read  the  reason  why  we  turn  our 
backs  on  this  wonderful  lookout  at  the  Battery. 

We  do  not  love  the  sea  ;  let  us  confess  it.  Let  us  no 
longer  affect  a  love  we  have  not. 

The  Englishman,  the  Neapolitan — these  have  only 
their  sea  to  love.  We  have  our  boundless  lands,  our 
mountains,  our  rivers.  We  love  our  land — land  out  of 
sight  and  out  of  sound  of  the  great,  sad  sea.  We  do 
not  love  the  sea  at  all. 

There  is  no  shame  in  this.  The  shame  consists  in 
affecting  to  love  it. 

Love  the  sea  because  the  English  sailors,  the  Italian 
fishermen  and  others  have  loved  it  ?  You  cannot  do 
that.     We  are  lovers  of  the  shore  because  of  our  mouu- 


rOlU'OISE    AND    OTHER    FISHES.  GO 

tains,  our  vast,  roomy  lands,  wlicre  wc  draw  breath  and 
wliere  grandeur  inhabits. 

Let  others  love  the  sea,  for  it  is  their  inheritance,  as 
the  plains,  the  mountains,  mighty  forests,  are  our  inherit- 
ance. 

This  deserted  Battery — park,  benches,  all  that  invites 
to  rest  and  large  diversion  as  the  ships  sweep  by — looked, 
as  it  always  looks  now,  like  a  deserted  garden. 

One  majestic  old  gentleman  walked  np  and  down  near 
the  sea  as  Walton,  in  his  nsiial  round  for  intelligence  of 
the  world's  ways,  came  by.  But  his  face  was  not  set  to 
the  sea.  The  sun  glanced  gloriously  on  a  thousand  sails. 
Tall  and  sombre  ships,  black  with  the  smoke  of  a  million 
tons  of  coal,  weary  and  creaking  from  thousands  of  miles 
of  travel,  sHd  by  with  stately  grace. 

The  sea  was  silver  and  gold,  but  the  impressive  old 
gentleman  did  not  look  in  that  direction.  He  had  his 
rosy  face  set  toward  Wall  Street. 

Soon  a  little  boy  came  running  u]).  Breathless  he 
thrust  a  slip  of  paper  in  the  liand  of  Mr.  Carrol,  Sr.,  and 
stood  waiting  for  orders. 

"  Still  tumbling  !  Tell  Stone  not  to  get  in  a  jxinic. 
Tell  him — tell  him — tell  him  to  stand  like  a  stone 
wall!" 

"  But,  sir,  he  says  he  must  have  more  margin,  sir." 

''  Margin — margin  ?  Ilow  dare  he  talk  to  me  of 
margin  ?  Go  to  Stone,  boy,  and  ask  him  how  much  he 
wants.  Tell  him,  boy,  he  shall  have  half  a  milliun.  Go 
quick  !     I — 1  will  wait  for  you." 

The  boy  shot  away  like  an  arrow,  as  it  was  just  in 
the  turn  of  three  p.m.  in  "Wall  Street  ;  and  the  impressive 
old  gentleman,  muttering  to  himself,  "  I  will  wait  for 
you  ;  I  will  wait  for  you  ;  but  don't  know  <|uite  where," 
begjin  to  button  up  his  coat  and  move  raj)i(lly  on  down 


70  TUE    DESTRUCTION    OF    GOTHAM. 

toward  the  Barge  Office,  so  as  to  be  safely  out  of  sight 
and  reach  when  the  boy  returned. 

"  All  !  Mr.  Walton.  Glad  to  encounter  you,  sab,  on 
this  classic  and  historic  spot,  sah.  1  see  you  appreciate 
nature,  sah,  as — as  I  do.  Yes,  sah,  this  is  a  glorious 
place  for  the  weary  and  overworked  officers  of  this  great 
country  to  find  a  moment's  recreation  from  their  ardu- 
ous toils.     Shake  hands,  sah,  again,  sah  !" 

Once  more  the  two  men  grappled,  and  the  stout  and 
well-fed  office-holder  shook  the  thin  newspaper  man  till 
his  teeth  rattled  together. 

"  A  M-riter,  sah,  a  member  of  the  press,  sah,  is  to  mc, 
sah,  an — an — an  object  of  reverence — I  had  almost  said 
worship,  sah  !" 

The  politician  moved  on  down  through  the  trees  toward 
the  Barge  Office  as  fast  as  he  could  while  he  spoke. 
Once  or  twice  he  threw  his  eye  back  over  his  shoulder 
as  if  in  great  fear  of  the  boy  with  demands  for  mar- 
gins from  the  cold  and  exacting  broker  of  the  Stock 
Board. 

"  You  are  not  so  busy  to-day,  Colonel  Carrol  ?" 

"  Busy  !  busy  as  a  bee,  sah.  1  tell  you  that  the  peo- 
ple have  no  idea  of  the  tremondous  duties  and  responsi- 
bilities of  us  poor,  overworked  men  in  the  management 
of  this  great  Government,  sah.  Say  so  in  your  paper, 
sah — say  so  in  all  of  your  ten  papers,  sah.  And  quote 
General  J.  J.  Carrol  as  your  authority,  sah.  Why,  the 
people  have  no  idea  how  we  have  to  work,  sah." 

With  a  last  furtive  look  back  over  his  shoulder,  tlio 
great  Carrol  puffed  himself  along  till  he  sank  into  a  seat 
where  he  was  securely  hidden  from  all  possible  boys  from 
all  possible  brokers  demanding  more  margins. 

Here,  in  a  most  patronizing  way,  he  drew  the  news- 
])aper  man  down  by  his  side.     Then,  slapping  the  re- 


rOIU'OISE    AND    OTIIEIl    FISHES.  71 

porter's  knee  familiarly  with  his  IiGavy,  fat  hand,  lie 
said,  as  lie  again  lifted  the  ponderous  pahn  in  the  air  : 

"  Sail,  we  here  in  this  single  port  collect  hundreds  of 
millions  of  dollars,  sah.  Think  of  that  !  Think  of  the 
labor  and  the  responsibility,  sah.  Why,  sah,  we  collect 
more  money  in  a  single  year  than  would  have  built 
twenty  Solomon's  temples,  sah — more  than  would  buy 
all  of  Jenisalcm  to-day,  sah  !" 

"  Let  us  hope  you  get  paid  for  your  labor.  General  ?" 

"  Moderately — moderately,  sah.  Very  moderately, 
considering  the  responsibility,  sah  !' ' 

"  And  how  many  hundred  thousand  men  are  engaged 
in  this  great  and  glorious  work  of  collecting  revenue  at 
the  thousand  sea-gates  of  our  great  country  ?" 

"  "Well,  not  many  hundred  thousands,  sah." 

"  And  how  much  of  this  money  does  it  cost  to  collect 
it — I  mean  counting  the  time  of  those  who  are  detained 
by  this  awkward  machinery,  this  blockade  of  business, 
all  the  delays  ?     How  much  of  it  ?     One  half  ?" 

"  "Well,  sah,  maybe  one  half  ;  maybe  one  quarter, 
sah." 

"  You  are  hardly  exact  or  definitely  informed  for  one 
in  your  exalted  position.  General.  But  I  see  you  wear 
English  clothes." 

"  Yes,  sah  ;  custom  of  our  family.  George  "Washing- 
ton, sah,  would  never  wear  an^'thing  else,  sah.  Custom 
of  the  Carrol  family,  sah." 

"Then  you  paid  for  that  coat  nearly  twice  as  much 
as  you  would  have  paid  had  we  not  had  our  standing 
army  of  a  hundred  thousand  men,  more  or  less,  eminent 
politicians  like  yourself,  guarding  the  great  sea-doors, 
waiting  to  tax  the  industries  of  others  from  other  lands  ? 
You  paid  a  double  price  for  your  coat,  eh  ?" 

There  was  a  sly  twinkle  in  the  stout  old  General's  eye. 


72  TIIR    DK.STUUCTION    OF    GOTHAM. 

Then  bo  chuckled  a  little  us  he  siiid  :  "Wall,  sah,  I 
liardlj  paid  fifty  per  cent." 

"  Or  forty  per  cent  ?" 

''  Or  forty  per  cent,  sah  !" 

"  Or  any  per  cent,  perhaps  ?" 

"  Or  any  per  cent.  No  ;  you  see — samples,  sah — 
samples  !"     And  the  great  man  chuckled  delightfully. 

"  That  is,  '  samples  '  are  sent  as  cigars  are  sent,  and 
you  and  your  friends  sample  them,  and  so  do  not  scruti- 
nize too  deeply  into  the  industries  of  those  sending  these 
samples  to  the  Custom  House  ?" 

"  JSTot  quite  that,  sah — not  quite  that  !  You  see,  sah, 
corruption  will  creep  in.  Confidentially,  sah,  the  col- 
lector is  careless.  We  call  it  careless.  You  see,  he 
smokes  too  much.  And,  sah,  when  a  man's  eyes  are 
full  of  smoke,  why,  he  can't  see  at  all,  sah," 

"  And  so  you  don't  quite  like  the  present  collector  ?" 

"Like  him?  He's  a  blackguard,  sah.  Say  so  in 
your  ten  papers,  sab  ;  but  don't  quote  General  Carrol, 
sab.  No,  sah  ;  the  man  for  the  place  is  Colonel  Mather- 
son,  sah." 

Walton  started  just  a  little,  fumbled  in  his  vest-pocket 
for  a  broken  chain  and  battered  locket,  lifted  them  up 
with  his  thumb  and  finger,  looked  at  them  an  instant  as 
if  to  be  certain  they  were  secure,  and  then  put  them 
back  deep  in  his  pocket. 

"  Yes,  sab  ;  Matberson  is  the  man  ;  a  strong  man  ;  a 
self-made  young  man,  sah  ;  a  true  New  Yorker  ;  and 
a  gentleman,  sah  ;  a  perfect  gentleman,  sab  ;  just  like  a 
real  Southerner,  sah.  You  sec,  I'm  Southern.  N-o  ; 
didn't  exactly  take  an  active  part  in  the  wab  ;  was  not 
in  good  health  ;  went  to  Canada  for  my  health,  sah. 
But,  sab,  like  a  true  patriot,  I  surrendered  when  the  wab 
was  over,  and  came  here,  took  this  position  of  trust,  and 


POUI'OISH    AND    OTlfKIi    FISIIKS.  73 

served  my  country  faithfully,  sali  ;  a — ^a  rccoiistructcd 
rebel,  sah  !" 

"But  Mathei-son  ;  he  is  not  a  lit  man.  lie  is  not  a 
good  man  for  that  higli  place  ?" 

"  The  soul  of  honor,  sah.  Why,  sah,  he  is  the  most 
perfect  gentleman  in  the  cit3\  sah  ;  and  in  love — yes, 
with  an  empress,  sah  ;  and  when  he  gets  this  exalted 
position  will  marry  her,  sah." 

"  And  her  name  is — " 

"  Ilattie  Lane,  sah.  Great  in  society,  sail.  Maybe 
you  have  heard  of  her,  sah.  You  reporters  know  a  great 
deal,  sah.  But  I  must  be  going,  sah  ;  good-day,  sah. 
Glad  to  have  seen  you,  sah." 

There  was  a  little  boy  seen  entering  farther  up  and 
on  among  the  trees,  and  Carrol  tied  hastily. 

Walton  did  not  ipiite  know  when  the  impressive  man 
went  away.  He  must  have  risen,  too,  and  shaken  hands 
with  him  instinctively  and  with  that  mechanical  polite- 
ness peculiar  to  all  well-bred  men. 

But  when  he  came  quite  to  himself  he  was  looking 
away  out  over  the  great  bay.  He  was  looking  down  the 
sweep  of  water  to  the  boundless  Atlantic. 

He  was  looking  steadily,  calmly,  silently  at  the  great 
gate  which  God's  hand  opened  wide  to  all  the  world,  but 
which  man's  hand  has  shut  against  his  fellow-man. 

The  ]>orpoises  were  tumbling  in  great  shoals. 

Ilattie  Lane  !  Hattie  Lane  ! 

The  name  rhymed  on  in  his  eai*s.  The  sun  was  shin- 
ing on  the  sea  and  on  a  thousand  ptissing  sails.  The 
sun  was  glittering  on  the  sea.  The  sun  was  dancing, 
sparkling,  gleaming.  And  maybe  that  was  what  was 
the  matter  with  the  man's  eyes  ;  for  as  he  turned  to  go 
away,  he  drew  his  hand  hastily  across  his  face,  and  his 
fingers  were  wet  with  tears. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  \  TRAGEDY. 


Poor  people  are  more  honest  in  America  than  rich 
people — more  generous,  also.  In  some  cases  honesty 
and  generosity  together  have  kept  them  poor.  In  too 
many  cases  dishonesty  has  made  men  rich.  But  this  is 
not  quite  the  case  in  old  countries. 

There  the  low  are  too  often  really  low. 

1  usually  lived  among  the  poor  when  in  Europe.  But 
there  are  ways  of  finding  out  refined  and  honest  people 
even  among  the  lowest  of  the  low  on  all  God's  earth. 

In  Italy  I  wandered  about  among  the  villages  of  the 
mountain  regions  for  two  years.  And  when  I  wanted  to 
find  a  place  to  stay,  a  room  in  some  humble  man's  house, 
I  would  walk  about  till  1  found  a  place  with  the  windows 
full  of  flowers. 

Here  I  woiild  take  up  my  abode,  and  be  as  safe  from 
insult,  suspicion,  vulgarity,  to  say  nothhig  of  personal 
security — which  is  a  small  thing — as  if  in  the  king's 
palace. 

As  Walton  and  his  weary  companion  had  come  from 
the  park  that  evening,  he  had  seen,  on  looking  about  for  a 
place  to  take  the  tired  girl  and  sleeping  child,  a  pot  of  red 
geraniums,  growing  luxuriantly  up  in  the  garret  of  this 
little  beer-shop.  He  was  too  weary  for  comment  then, 
but  this  little  sign  showed  almost  all  he  cared  to  know. 
It  told  him  that  a  woman  lived  there,  and  that  the 
place  was  not  an  unsafe  one  for  a  young  girl  to  enter  5 


TIIK   SUADOAV    OF   A   TllAGEDY,  75 

and  the  tlirifty  and  well-tended  flowers  also  told  him  that 
this  woman  not  only  hud  koiuc  artistie  taste  and  love  of 
color,  but  that  she  was  a  woman  who  liad  sense  and  sym- 
pathy. And  it  was  this  assurance  which  permitted  him 
to  leave  the  girl  there  for  days  without  any  special  con- 
cern. 

As  for  Dottie,  she  slept  till  far  into  the  first  half  of 
the  new  day.  She  opened  her  eyes  on  honest  poverty 
and  innocent  surroundings,  the  first,  be  it  confessed,  for 
days — years. 

There  was  a  bird  singing  in  the  next  room.  She 
found  many  half-clad,  chubby  children  gathered  about 
feeding  it,  laughing,  shouting  merrily  under  their  shocks 
of  flaxen  hair  as  they  drew  on  their  clothes.  The  bright 
red  geranium  gleamed  in  the  window  like  a  little  sun- 
rise. 

Little  Dollie  was  fast  friends  with  the  children  in  a 
moment.  They  merely  widened  the  circle  a])out  the 
cage.  She  toddled  up,  melted  in,  and  became  a  part  of 
the  merry  ring  at  once. 

''  Oh,  I  just  fit  in  here  !" — that  is  what  poor  Dottie 
said  to  the  Gennan  woman  who  came  in,  with  her  hands 
full  of  work,  and  began  good-naturedly  to  set  her  tum])led 
children  in  order  ;  somewhat  in  the  way  one  would  set 
up  tenpins. 

The  woman  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  honest 
expression,  but  she  liked  the  girl's  face,  and  spoke  very 
kindly  to  the  child.     This  made  peace,  happiness,  love. 

''  You  see  we  are  iK)or,  and  we  all  work.  The  chil- 
dren are  just  beginning.  They  work  when  not  at 
school.  AVould  you  like  to  work  ?  You  can  go  with 
me,  maybe.'' 

The  great  eyes  of  the  strange  girl  gleamed  with 
delight.      The   full,    pale  lips   took  color,  and  a  smile 


76  THK    DESTKUCTION   OF   GOTUAM. 

sliowed  sucli  a  set  of  pearly  teeth  as  luid  not  been  seen 
for  days, 

"  What  do  you  do  ?" 

"  I  wear  pretty  clothes  and  walk  about  for  one,  two, 
or  three  hours  on  a  floor  with  other  people.  They  are 
good  people,  some  of  them.  The  place  is  well  lighted. 
You  do  not  need  to  speak  to  any  one  all  the  evening  if 
you  do  not  choose.  They  are  all  very  civil.  And,  then, 
the  music  is  good.  "We  Germans  like  music  very  much. 
Tou  see  this  ?  I  am  making  ray  own  clothes.  I  get 
one  dollar  every  evening  if  I  wear  their  clothes.  I  get 
one  dollar  and  a  half  every  evening  if  I  furnish  my 
dresses.  1  can  walk  all  the  way  if  it  is  fair.  That  is 
nine  dollars  a  week.  You  see,  that  makes  nearly  forty 
dollars  a  month." 

The  girl  came  close  up  to  the  woman,  in  her  eagerness 
to  hear  and  learn,  to  accept  her  noble  friendship. 

"  They  will  take  you,  I  know.  They  will  look  at 
your  eyes  first,  then  your  figure.  You  have  these  per- 
fect. Y^ou  see,  they  cannot  make  eyes.  They  can  make 
complexion,  and  hair,  and  teeth  even  as  fine  as  you 
liave  ;  but  they  cannot  make  your  eyes." 

The  girl  clutched  at  the  woman  in  her  delight  with 
her  two  hands,  as  if  she  feared  she  might  escape  her. 

She  had  been  going  down,  down,  catching  here,  try- 
ing to  hold  on  there,  trying  to  stop,  stopping  sometimes, 
even  getting  a  little  way  up  stream  sometimes,  but  only 
to  lose  her  hold,  to  be  borne  away — down,  down,  down 
— farther  each  time  than  before. 

How  strange  it  was  to  her  to  hear  kind  words  like 
these  !  And  then  that  strange  man  the  night  before  who 
brought  it  all  about.  Once  in  the  night,  when  she  had 
awakened  for  a  moment,  and  thought  of  the  man  who 
had  thrown  a  great  piece  of  gold  down  before  her,  and 


THE   SHADOW   OF   A  TUAGKDY.  77 

tlioii  disappeared  in  tlic  darkness,  sho  pinched  herself  to 
see  if  it  M'as  really  true  and  she  was  (piitc  awake. 

Then  she  tlionght  how  rich  he  must  be  !  She  almost 
hated  him  then.  How  she  wished  that  he  M'as  poor  like 
hci*self,  so  that  she  miifht  at  least  he  ])ermitted  to  see  him 
again,  to  talk  to  him,  to  know  him,  respect — aye,  even 
from  afar  off,  and  secretly  to  love  him. 

They  all  breakfasted,  a  merry  gronp  together.  A 
frugal  meal  it  ■was,  but  Dottie  and  Dollie  were  never  so 
happy  in  all  their  two  lives. 

"When  the  woman  had  eaten,  she  left  the  rosy  garden 
of  children,  in  Avhich  Dottie,  poor,  childlike,  and  help- 
less Dottie,  w:is  only  a  lai'gcr  flower,  and  went  down  to 
tcTid  the  bar  while  her  husband,  the  busy  man  with  the 
high  cheek-bones  and  low  brow,  came  up  and  also  dis- 
patched his  frugal  breakfast. 

These  are  the  people,  or  rather  the  children  of  such, 
reared  as  these  children  are  reared,  face  to  face  with 
poverty  and  toil,  who  make  this  country  great. 

And  so  it  was  that  Dottie  went  to  work. 

She  had  never  been  inside  of  a  theatre  before.  As  the 
woman  who  took  her  witli  her  that  evening  said  they 
would,  they  <^)nly  looked  at  her  eyes,  her  figure,  and  her 
Wonderful  face. 

The  next  night  that  knot  of  lepers,  moral  and  physical 
lepers,  which  hovers  forever  about  every  stage-door,  was 
doubled  in  its  audacity  and  nund)ers.  But  the  German 
woman  led  her  strange  and  startled  friend  safely  through 
all,  hastily  up  toward  home,  sufTering  no  other  harm  than 
a  torn  sleeve  or  soiled  skirt  and  a  broadside  of  insults  and 
obscenity  such  as  no  other  city  and  no  otlier  scene  on 
earth  could  produce  ;  but  both  had  become  used  to  this 
in  their  respective  struggles  in  the  great  Gotham. 

IIow  happy  was  Dottie  now  !     And  how  grateful  and 


78  TUE   DESTKUCTIOX   OF   GOTHAM. 

how  good  !  She  took  her  child  every  day  into  the  park. 
She  did  not  want  tu  be  seen  now  by  the  man  wlio  liad  so 
despised  her. 

For  the  first  few  days  she  kept  quite  liidden  away  in 
tlie  deep  woods  and  tortuous  ways,  and  played,  laughed, 
chatted  with  the  child.  It  did  not  take  so  much  to 
make  her  happy.  It  does  not  take  much  to  make  any 
one  happy. 

God  has  put  it  in  your  power  to  rise  up  at  this  mo- 
ment and  go  forth  and  make  some  one  human  being  per- 
fectly, supremely  happy.     Kever  forget  this. 

But  woman's  curiosity  impelled  this  girl  finally  to  see 
if  he  still  drove,  and  drove  wath  the  beautiful  sister  at  his 
side.  And  so  she  drew  near  to  the  drive  one  day,  and  from 
a  sheltered  and  securely-hidden  place  watched  all  the 
afternoon  for  a  well-known  team  and  carriage.  He  did 
not  come.  She  was  glad,  and  took  a  long  breath  of 
satisfaction — she  knew  not  why — as  she  turned  home  in 
the  twilight. 

Strangely  enough,  on  the  next  day  this  same  woman's 
curiosity  set  her  in  the  same  place  and  for  the  same  pur- 
pose. She  hoped  she  would  not  see  him.  She  felt,  too, 
that  she  would  be  a  bit  unhappy  if  slie  did  not.  She 
knew  she  would  be  entirely  wretched  if  she  did. 

Suddenly  she  saw  the  horses  tossing  their  plumed  and 
tasselled  heads,  gleaming  with  silver  and  gold,  above  the 
sea  of  horses  and  carriages  pouring  in  and  up  the  wooded 
way. 

The  girl  held  her  breath  and  leaned  a  little  forward. 
The  hoi*ses  were  lifting  high  their  caparisoned  heads, 
l)lunging  and  tossing  foam  from  their  moutlis. 

The  man  did  not  hold  the  whip  in  liis  luind.  He  held 
the  reins  Avith  but  a  single  hand.  Astliey  drew  near  the 
girl's  face  became  2)ale,  rigid.     As  they  passed  the  man's 


THE   SHADOW    OF    A   TRAOEDY.  79 

face  was  hent  down  to  liis  coinpaiiioirs,  lier  face  turned, 
lilted  to  his.      It  lay  against  his  shoulder. 

The  face  of  that  regal  beauty  nestled  there,  restful, 
content,  radiant  with  joy,  at  his  side. 

"  1  will  kill  her  !" 

That  was  all  that  the  watcher  said.  Tlie  girl,  as  she 
hissed  these  words  through  lier  teeth,  cauglitupthe  child 
and  lied  back  deeper  into  the  woods,  and  so  on  hastily  to 
her  home.  Once,  twice,  thrice,  she  said  between  her 
full,  set  lips  :  "  1  knew,  I  knew  it  wasn't  his  sister.  Oh, 
what  a  fool  1  am  to  believe  anybody  !     I  will  kill  her  !" 

That  evening — it  was  not  quite  sunset  and  a  week  had 
not  yet  passed — Walton  came.  lie  found  his  little  friend 
strangely  sad  and  unhappy.  But  as  he  had  never  seen 
her  otherwise,  this  did  not  surprise  him  at  all.  lie  had 
his  pockets  full  of  sweets  and  toys  for  the  child.  The 
generous  little  thing  was  very  happy,  and  gave  them  all 
uway  on  the  instant  to  her  companions. 

Dottie  tried  hard  to  be  very  kind  to  her  strange  friend. 
She  made  him  sit  down  and  eat  with  lier  as  night  came 
on  ;  for  on  this  evening  she  need  not  be  early  at  her 
work. 

The  man  was  more  than  glad  as  she  told  him  all  her 
good  fortune.  And,  indeed,  she,  too,  was  glad  again  as 
she  went  over  all  her  work  to  the  minutest  detail. 

And  as  he  listened,  now  and  then  making  wise  and 
•juiet  suggestions  and  connnents,  and  she  looked  in  his 
careworn  and  singularly  sensitive  face,  she  felt  as  if  he 
were  some  being  better  than  all  men  she  had  ever  known 
or  dreamed  of. 

She  felt  a  sudden,  strange,  overwhelming  impulse  to 
jnit  out  her  hand,  to  take  his,  to  hold  it,  to  press  it  to 
her  lips  ;  but  he  seemed  too  serious,  too  much  in  ear- 
nest, too  full  of  ciire  and  concern  for  any  liberty  like  tliat. 


80  THK    DESTRUCTION   OF   fJOTlfAM. 

But  she  leurncJ  some  tilings  from  him  thut  made  her 
gliid.  When  lie  told  her  how  poor  he  was,  and  how  hard 
lie  worked,  and  how  desolate  his  life  was,  she  suddenly 
became  happj — seltishlj,  cruelly  happy. 

It  seemed  to  her  now  that  somehow  she  had  at  least 
half  a  right  to  love  this  man  ;  and  even  as  she  sat  there 
she  began  to  love  him. 

This  impulsive,  untrained,  half-wild  creature  began  to 
love  this  man  here  as  she  hated  the  man  whom  she  had 
just  seen  in  the  park  in  all  his  splendid  opulence. 

It  was  with  a  singular  bit  of  satisfaction  that  she  went 
to  the  German  behind  the  bar,  and  returned  with  a  golden 
eagle.  She  threw  it  down  on  the  table,  and  stood  uj)  a 
moment  in  mock  grandeur,  as  he  had  stood  that  night 
when  they  first  met  ;  then  she  pointed  to  the  coin,  and 
strode  toward  the  door.  She  was  practising  her  profes- 
sion, and  the  man  laughed  with  delight  as  he  looked  at 
her  and  took  up  the  coin,  lie  turned  the  coin  over  and 
over  in  his  hand  as  she  came  and  sat  down  before  him. 
Then,  with  a  sigh,  he  put  it  in  his  pocket.  It  was  the 
same.  There  was  the  same  face  he  had  looked  at  so 
often  and  named  it  Hattie  Lane. 

What  a  joy  it  was  to  give  this  man  back  this  same 
coin  !  She  felt,  too,  that  she  now  stood  better  in  his 
eyes  than  before.     This  alone  was  great  happiness. 

Then  she  was  afraid  he  might  think  she  was  really 
good,  and  innocent,  and  pure.  She  would  not  lie,  even 
in  act  or  deed.  Yet  she  did  not  dare  tell  him  nnything 
at  all  of  her  life,  her  awful  history.  But  she  talked  on, 
talked  of  many  things  ;  and,  finding  how  well  he  knew 
the  city,  they  had  many  things  in  common  to  talk  about. 

"  There  is  one  park  where  they  do  not  drive  a  girl 
away  when  she  falls  to  sleep.  That  is  Riverside  Park. 
There  arc  not  many  policemen  there  ;  but  there  are  so 


TUE   SHADOW    OF   A    TKAGKDV.  81 

niiuiy  tramps  tliat  one  is  afraid  to  be  there  alone.  I  used 
to  go  down  close  to  the  railroad  with  Dollie,  as  close  as  1 
could  get.  That  made  company  for  me  Avhen  the  cars 
passed.  Then  the  tramps  would  not  dare  to  come  so 
close.  Then  one  time  an  old  man  gave  me  this  to  keep 
the  tramps  away  when  1  told  him  how  they  would  follow 
me." 

She  paused  a  moment  as  she  held  the  little  black 
"bulldog"  pistol  in  her  small  white  hand.  Both  were 
very  <|uiet  for  a  long  time.  Neither  spoke.  Then,  lean- 
ing forward,  still  holding  the  pistol  tightly,  she  said  : 

"  What  is  the  name  of  that  woman  we  saw  riding  that 
day  with  him  ?" 

There  was  fire  in  her  eyes,  desperation  in  her  fierce, 
husky,  half-articulated  words.  The  man  did  not  answer. 
Men  do  not  give  names  in  this  great  city  readily.  Men 
do  not  always  give  their  own  names.  No  man  gives  the 
name  of  the  woman  he  loves  to  a  strange  girl  like  this. 

The  girl  put  the  small  weapon  in  her  pocket.  It  was 
so  small  you  could  hold  it  in  your  hand  unseen  ;  but  it 
was  a  deadly  little  thing.  Itwjis  the  old-fashioned  kind, 
with  the  percussion-cap.  Through  the  slit  in  the  half- 
lifted  hammer  yon  could  see  the  bright  cap  shine  like  the 
teeth  through  a  bulldog's  lip. 

The  man  looked  at  this  girl  with  silent  dismay,  dread, 
and  awe,  as  she  put  the  ])istol  back  in  her  pocket  and 
began  again  to  rattle  on  in  a  strange,  wild,  and  e.xcited 
way,  recounting  these  almost  incredible  facts  about  her- 
self— her  life  on  the  road,  in  the  park,  with  tramps. 
Again  and  all  the  time  this  man  was  calmly  balancing 
facts  in  his  mind,  putting  this  and  that  together,  as 
before. 

"  There  will  be  a  tragedy  some  day,"  he  said  to 
himself. 


82  THE    DESTRUCTION    OF   OOTHAM. 

The  girl  saw  that  lie  was  thoughtful,  troubled.  She 
paused,  looked  in  his  face,  felt  embarrassed,  and  then, 
as  if  in  desperation,  began  again  to  talk  as  before  ;  but 
she,  too,  soon  fell  to  thinking. 

She  had  not  dared  tell  him  anything  of  this  kind,  had 
she  not  been  induced  to  it  by  his  own  confessions  of  a 
similar  kind.  She  was  sorry  now  she  had  told  him  any- 
thing ;  ashamed  that  she  had  shown  the  pistol  ;  angry 
with  herself. 

At  last,  with  a  sigh,  she  made  an  effort  of  will,  and 
tried  to  be  good,  gentle,  lovable.  The  world  had  been 
hard  to  her ;  but  now  she  felt  she  had  a  sympathetic 
friend.  She  really  loved  this  man  after  her  sudden  and 
impulsive  fashion  now  ;  and  she  wanted  his  sympathy, 
his  esteem. 

She  did  not  want  to  shock  him  now  and  frighten  him 
away.  Had  they  not  both  suffered  enough  ?  Why,  they 
had  starved  in  the  same  hard  city  together. 

After  all,  there  is  no  baptism  like  that  of  poverty  and 
brave,  patient  endurance  of  it. 

This  is  the  one  great  Church.  How  many  of  us  be- 
long to  it  ?  Christ  was  the  founder  of  it.  This  is  the 
holiest  brotherhood,  it  seems  to  me. 

Who  is  there  that  has  not  suffered  ?  Only  babes,  new- 
born. And  who  has  not  suffered  and  sinned  also  ?  No 
one  is  entirely  human  who  has  not  ;  and  it  is  a  dreary 
and  loveless  soul  that  has  not  suffered  and  siimed  also. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  FIFTH  AVENUE  AFTERNOON. 

DoTTTE  (lid  not  always  take  tlic  child  witli  licr  now  to 
tlie  park.  She  let  her  go  there  with  the  rosy  little  flock 
of  Germans. 

More  than  once  she  saw  the  same  scene  which  so  tor- 
tured her  before.  More  than  once,  j^eering  through  tlie 
wood,  her  dark  eyes  flashed  hatred  on  the  beautiful 
blonde  lady,  nestled  down  there  so  supremely  happy  by 
the  side  of  the  man  she  hated,  as  the  gorgeous  tide  of 
equipages  rolled  past.  Her  left  hand  would  part  and 
hold  back  the  thick  foliage,  her  right  hand  clutch  and 
hold  the  ugly  weapon  we  have  seen  before. 

One  would  say  that  she  should  have  sought  to  kill  the 
man  at  her  side.  It  seems  to  me  that  hadl»een  the  most 
natural  thing  for  her  to  do,  or  at  le;ist  desire  to  do.  I3ut 
she  thought  only  of  killing  the  beautiful  woman. 

The  girl  had  come  to  know  the  precise  moment  when 
they  would  p;iss.  You  order  your  carriage  at  a  certain 
hour.  It  is  on  the  minute.  It  takes  you  just  precisely 
so  long  to  reach  the  park.  Your  team  takes  you  at  pre> 
cisely  the  same  pace. 

There  is  no  mistake  about  the  exact  time  you  will 
reach  and  pass  any  certain  point. 

Each  day  this  girl  had  grown  l)olderand  bolder.  Each 
time  she  had  drawn  closer  and  closer  to  the  edge  of  tlio 
road. 

Once  some  ladies  saw  her  crouching  in  the  thick  edo-e 


84  THE    DESTUUCTION    OP    GOTHAM. 

of  tlio  wood,  unci  screamed  witli  iilurin,  she  looked  so  wild, 
so  wicked  now,  yet  so  beautiful. 

After  that  the  girl  was  a  bit  more  careful,  and  changed 
her  place  of  concealment.  Yet  she  kept  close  to  the 
drive  ;  so  close  was  she,  that  at  one  time  the  wheels  of 
the  carriage  in  which  Hattie  Lane  sat  threw  dust  on  this 
poor  girl's  stream  of  midnight  hair  as  she  held  back  the 
bushes,  leaned  f  ortli,  her  pale  lips  parted,  a  pistol  clutched 
in  her  hand. 

This  little  circumstance  seemed  to  settle  all  doubt  and 
delay.     She  decided  that  the  next  day  should  be  the  liist. 

Strangely  enough,  it  was  a  great  relief  to  her — this  re- 
solve. She  drew  in  a  long  breath  as  she  turned  home 
that  afternoon. 

She  was  almost  happy  as  she  went  to  her  work  that 
night.  She  greeted  Walton — who  had  gradually,  by 
some  way  or  other,  come  to  be  with  her  a  great  deal  now 
and  to  walk  home  with  her  from  the  theatre — with  a 
kindness  and  cordiality  that  night  which  he  had  not 
known  from  her  before. 

She  even  leaned  on  his  arm  with  affection  and  trust. 
She  spoke  of  the  little  child  with  womanly  tenderness 
and  concern.  lie  was  certain  he  had  never  seen  Dottie 
so  gentle,  so  quiet,  good,  and  entirely  lovely. 

lie  said  kind  things  to  her ;  she  stored  them  in  her 
heart  as  a  miser  might  hoard  precious  jewels. 

She  loved  this  man  at  her  side  truly  and  well.  With 
murder  in  her  heart  she  had  love  in  her  heart  also.  Side 
by  side  in  the  same  chamber  slept  hate  and  love — murder 
and  adoration. 

The  next  day  she  took  her  place  in  the  wood.  She 
waited.  She  knew  the  moment  the  pretty,  happy,  beau- 
tiful, innocent  lady  would  appear. 

The   day  was  cold,  and  the   girl  shivered  ;  but   she 


A    FIFTU   AVENUE   AFTERNOON.  85 

stood  tlicrc,  bold,  steady,  still,  watching  down  the  way 
for  Ilattie  Lane. 

Slie  did  not  come,  and  the  i^irl,  half  wild  and  crazed, 
rose  lip  and  walked  down  toward  the  city,  as  if  she  would 
meet  the  tardy  carriage  and  bring  things  instantly  to  a 
crisis.     She  still  clutched  tiic  pistol. 

But  she  did  not  meet  the  carriage  at  all.  Of  all  the 
thousands,  this  one  did  not  come. 

.   She  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  park,  and  peered  far  down 
the  avenue. 

Dindy  in  the  distance  slie  saw  an  awning  stretched  out 
across  the  wide  and  crowded  pavement.  The  place  was 
black  with  people.  The  avenue  at  this  place  was  packed 
•with  carriages.  It  flashed  across  the  girl's  mind  immedi- 
ately. 

Was  it  a  wedding  ?  Was  she  to  be  married  ?  May. 
be  it  was  but  an  ordinary  reception.  It  seemed  to  bo 
just  the  place  where  the  object  of  her  vengeance  was  to 
be  found.     She  felt  this  ;  she  knew  this. 

She  was  so  certain  of  this,  that  she  went  straight  homo 
and  put  on  her  best  attire  :  a  wild,  strange  dress  it  was, 
made  up  mostly  of  her  outfit  for  the  theatre.  And  yet 
they  were  not  entirely  out  of  taste  or  in  any  way  in  too 
sharp  contrast  with  some  of  the  dresses  seen  at  the  great 
fashionable  gatherings  on  Fifth  Avenue.  With  such 
liair,  such  eyes,  such  teeth,  complexion,  and  presence, 
what  apparel  need  she  liave  had  to  open  all  doors,  sub- 
due all  hearts  ? 

In  the  ordinary  ^«ew  York  hall,  born  of  the  most 
vicious  style  of  architecture  ever  seen  since  the  savages 
gave  up  this  island,  you  are  tired  like  a  wad  shot  out  of 
the  muzzle  of  a  gun. 

Out  of  this  dark,  narrow,  hideous  hall  you  are  shot 
into  the  full  glare  of  gaslight  right  at  the  head  of  the 


86  THE   DESTliUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

sliort,  fut  liostess,  with  red  face  and  arms,  nursing  a  hid- 
eous bouquet,  with  the  stems  of  the  poor  flowers  tied 
tight  with  wires. 

There  is  a  hideous  brass  band  in  your  ears  ;  the  gLiss 
ghires  in  your  eyes  ;  the  popping  of  chamjjagne  in  the 
rear  appeals  to  you  to  escape  all  this  barbarism  by  i)our- 
ing  in  there  with  the  crowd  of  red-faced  and  reckless 
women  pouring  down  wine  and  getting  drunk — drunk  as 
the  others  are  drunk.  But  this  house,  around  wliich  so 
many  carriages  clustered  this  afternoon,  and  from  \vhich 
the  great  awnings  stretched  over  the  broad  pavement  to 
welcome  the  quiet  comers,  was  no  ordinary  house. 

It  was  new,  noble  in  its  appointments.  Tiie  vast, 
round,  roomy  hall  was  of  Moorish  fashion,  and  at  first 
glance  seemed  to  be  mounted  and  inlaid  with  soft,  ham- 
mered copper.  There  was  no  crowding,  no  haste.  The 
people  coming  here  and  there  took  time  to  be  polite. 
There  was  no  noise. 

For  savages  did  not  have  possession  of  this  hall. 
There  was  no  brass  band,  suggesting  the  possibility  of  a 
war-dance  as  the  day  wore  on. 

There  was  room  here  for  guests  to  melt  gradually  and 
unobserved  away  into  waiting-rooms,  and  appear  finally 
in  all  their  splendor  a  moment  later  before  the  unobtru- 
sive hostess  in  the  deep  glory  of  the  heart  of  the  house. 

You  heard  only  a  murmur  of  voices  here.  Shoddy 
was  here — she  is  indeed  everywhere — but  she  was  awed 
into  silence  now.  She  could  not  talk  of  the  things 
talked  of  here.  It  was  to  her  as  if  the  people  spoke  in  a 
strange  tongue.  The  names  of  beautiful  and  antique 
things  were  new  to  her.  She  could  not  pronounce  them. 
She  could  not  place  them.  She  could  not  remember 
them  when  she  got  home.  She  did  not  like  this  lan- 
guage.    She  rarely  came  a  second  time. 


A   I'U-TII   AVEXUE  AFTERNOON.  87 

Art  draws  licr  own  lines.  They  seem  soft,  delicate, 
hardly  to  be  observed  at  first ;  but  they  are  hard  as  steel, 
impassable  as  the  ij^ulf  to  the  coarse,  insolent,  and  vul<^ar. 

You  were  not  tired  into  this  paradise  at  the  sound  of 
a  brass  band  and  the  popping  of  corks :  you  rather 
melted  into  it.  If  you,  by  nature,  or  birth,  or  breeding, 
belonged  there,  you  became  a  part  of  it.  From  this 
great,  generous  Moorish  hall  you  came  to  something 
more  generous,  subdued,  glorious.  You  proceeded 
tranquilly,  silently,  from  a  little  fairyland  to  a  larger 
fairyland. 

Here  was  a  glowing  fireplace.  The  smell  of  burning 
oak — the  incense  of  our  land — blended  sweetly  with  the 
restful  odors  of  the  Orient.  The  sickening  smell  and 
offensive  display  of  sickly  flowers  entirely  out  of  season 
was  absent. 

It  is  absurd  to  copy  past  styles,  unless  we  can  also 
copy  the  conditions  under  which  they  flourished.  In  our 
country  fireplaces  should  be  in  every  house  and  nearly 
every  room — they  are  beautiful,  because  they  are  har- 
monious to  our  needs — but  flowers  and  fireplaces  in  the 
same  apartment  are  discordant. 

Here  the  guests  were  not  all  in  full  view,  but  hidden, 
or  partly  hidden.  They  seemed  to  appear  and  disappear. 
The  dado  of  this  room  was  of  repousse  work  in  copper 
of  conventional  design.  The  mural  work  was  of  Cor- 
dova leather,  fastened  with  large,  flat-headed  nails  of 
curiously  wrought  aral)csque  design,  placed  on  the  leather 
singly  and  sometimes  in  irregular  masses. 

The  not  notably  high  ceiling  had  the  appearance  of  a 
thin  metal  sheet,  also  fastened  with  nail-heads  in  antique 
designs.  Every  hue  of  bronze,  brass,  gold,  silver,  and 
copper  was  en)ployed  in  the  decoration. 

The  woodwork  was  dark  and  rather  plain.     The  fur- 


88  THE    DESTRUCTION    OF    GOTHAM. 

iiiture  was  of  teak  and  other  dark  woods,  all  carved  and 
of  elegant  and  substantial  form. 

Springing  from  the  floor  and  up  through  designs  in 
bronze  or  marble,  singly  and  in  groups,  tall  trees  of  gas 
lit  up  the  place  with  unobtrusive  splendor. 

The  soft  light  lay  on  the  walls,  so  that  they  glittered 
and  sparkled  with  a  brilliant  but  subdued  radiance  of  a 
thousand  hues,  while  on  the  ceiling,  the  floor,  the  drapery, 
and  statuary  it  fell  but  dimly,  dreamful,  restful. 

In  this  light  the  few  and  rare  pictures  seemed  to  stand 
out  from  the  wall  to  await  you,  to  welcome  you. 

Ileavy  curtains,  ^vith  open-work  metal  disks,  so  that 
when  they  were  touched  or  pushed  to  and  fro  the  metals 
clashed  quietly,  and  yielded  their  soft  musical  melody  to 
the  sense,  draped  the  alcoves.  Over  the  floor  dark  and 
brown  and  amber-colored  silken  Persian  rugs  were  strewn 
in  studied  carelessness. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  modest  display  of  splendid  taste 
stood  for  a  moment,  like  a  great  animal  in  a  strange 
fleld,  the  mighty  millionaire,  with  the  vast  smile  and  the 
two  big  and  tightly-closed  hands  ;  but  he  did  not  re- 
main long.  He  could  not  talk  the  language  spoken 
here. 

And  Stone,  the  great  wrecker  of  railroads,  came  also; 
but  he,  too,  nervous,  uneasy,  and  out  of  place,  soon 
disappeared.  As  he  went  out  another  of  his  class  ob- 
served to  another  man,  both  out  of  place  and  of  the 
same  order  of  character  and  intellect  :  "  They  say  he 
drinks — drinks  on  the  sly." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  other  ;  "  drinks  iiicn's  blood." 

"  That,  perhaps,  is  because  he  has  no  blood  of  his 
own." 

Both  these  men  had  met  him  in  AYall  Street. 

There  was  a  rustle,  a  soft  sound,  a  ninrinur  made  by 


A  rirrir  avexuk  afternoon.  89 

uU  insensate  tilings,  as  if  in  udiniration.  Evcrytliiiig 
clo([ueiitly  spoke  tlie  name  : 

"  Ilattie  Lane  !" 

She  stood,  lialf  loaning,  speaking  only  with  her  per- 
fect presence,  as  if  she,  she  only,  and  not  another,  was 
the  mistress  here  ;  as  if  she  had  been  horn  here,  had  been 
here  always,  and  would  never  go  away. 

Her  dress,  without  a  single  gem  or  jewel,  seemed  to 
be  a  part  of  the  perfection  around  her.  And  if  the  little 
bells,  bronzes,  marbles — all  things,  broke  out  in  an  audi- 
ble murmur  of  admiration  as  she  came,  what  less,  or 
more,  could  man  or  woman  do  when  she  stood  before 
them  ? 

The  guests  rose  to  their  feet  in  a  body.  Some  came 
forward  with  the  hostess  to  receive  her  in  silent  elo- 
quence of  admiration.  They  saw,  heard  only  her.  They 
did  not  hear  the  cry  of  hate  that  came  from  a  half-con- 
cealed face. 

Some  one  had  stolen  in  and  hidden  away  unseen  in  the 
heavy  hangings. 

Walton  came  forward  last,  alone. 

There  is  a  weird  fabric  made  in  India,  and  used  prin- 
cipally in  Siam  ;  it  is  black,  with  gold  threads  run 
through  it,  and  has  no  design.  It  seems  a  brilliant  gold 
under  certain  lights,  in  others  it  is  simply  plain  black. 
In  other  lights  a  wave  of  sunlight  seems  to  run  down  an<l 
up  and  over  its  surface  ;  and  under  (piick  movements  the 
threads  shoot  out  like  flashes  of  fire.  It  is  a  mysterious, 
passionate  fabric,  capable  of  expressing  many  of  the 
emotions  of  the  wearer.  Sometimes  it  takes  that  pro- 
found ruby  tone  which  makes  all  one's  color-sense  swim 
— a  sort  of  hasheesh  of  color. 

This  lady's  dress,  the  body  of  it,  was  this.  A  pointed 
nock,  back  and  front,  was  thiidy  filled  with  the  flimsiest 


90  THE    DESTKUCTIOX    OF    GOTHAM. 

Cluiutilly  lace.  Her  hair  of  gold — heaps  and  heaps  of 
old  gold,  shone  above  this  sombre  dress,  a  halo — her  only 
jewel. 

Do  you  know  why  the  classic  Greek  dress  was  so  good 
and  helpful  in  making  people  beautiful  ?  Because  in 
form  it  was  completely  negative  ;  because  it  depended 
for  its  character  entirely  upon  that  of  the  wearer,  and  so 
it  became,  to  a  very  great  degree,  part  of  the  expression 
of  the  individual. 

We  express  our  characters,  our  emotions,  our  culture, 
more  through  gestures,  attitudes,  than  through  any  other 
avenue  of  expression.  Well,  the  Greek  costume  being 
without  form,  as  near  as  a  straiglit  piece  of  cloth  can  be, 
accepted  that  of  the  wearer,  and  changed  with  every 
change  of  the  wearer  ;  so  it  was  more  than  a  mere  cover- 
ing, and  more  than  merely  being  unobstructive  to  move- 
ment of  all  kinds.  Its  many  folds,  by  following, 
doubled  and  redoubled  each  gesture  of  the  wearer,  and  so 
added  force,  and  grace,  and  color  to  each  expression. 

The  modern  dress  is  built.  It  is  positive,  dogmatic. 
It  has  a  most  assertive  and  ugly  form,  which  it  refuses  to 
yield  to  that  of  the  wearer  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  so  in- 
sistent is  it  of  itself,  that  it  obliges  the  form  of  the 
wearer  to  assume  its  hideous  outlines.  It  has  more  to  do 
with  making  women  awkward  and  inexpressive  than  any 
other  dozen  causes  ;  it  has  made  them  prisoners,  and  so 
has  closed  the  avenue  of  expressive  motions  that  women 
have  no  longer  free  and  plastic  bodies,  able  to  express 
tlieir  natures,  souls.  It  has  made  them  merely  conven- 
tional beings,  with  imprisoned,  dead,  and  dying  bodies, 
grotesque  and  deformed. 

As  Ilattic  Lane  stood  there,  the  real  queen  and  centre 
of  the  place,  the  city,  if  not  of  the  world  of  society — 
stood  there  only  a  moment — the  soft  light  making  a  halo 


A    FIFTH    AVENUE    AFTERNOON.  91 

of  %orc  than  <^(Ad  and  glory  about  licr  splendor  of  hair, 
and  her  gracefully-fashioned  Greek  face  and  perfect 
Greek  figure,  so  perfectly  clad — there  was  a  wild  cry  of 
pain,  of  terror. 

The  little  metallic  tassels  gave  out  a  sharp  and  angry 
sound,  as  a  dark  and  terrible  beauty  of  another  type  stood 
before  her. 

Only  these  two  women  were  there.  Men  and  women 
were  all  about ;  but  only  these  two  women  possessed 
that  place. 

Dottle's  midnight  of  hair  was  tossed  all  about  her. 
Her  eyes  were  flame.     Her  face  was  ashen  pale. 

Her  l)lack  immensity  of  hair  was  wild,  and  blew  about 
as  clouds  in  a  terrible  storm. 

The  right  hand  sprang  in  air,  and  then  fell  on  a  level 
with  the  beautiful,  passive  face  before  her.  Another 
instant,  and  all  would  be  over. 

"Walton  sprang  between,  put  down  the  deadly  weapon, 
and  looked  the  strange,  wild  girl  in  the  face. 

"  You  here  !  You  ?  Why,  I'm  sorry,  then,  and 
will  go.     I— 1— no  !     I  will  kill  her  '." 

Again  the  pistol  was  in  the  air.  All  was  so  sudden, 
that  even  yet  no  one  knew  what  Wiis  about  to  happen. 
People  do  n(jt  take  in  such  situations  instantly  or  com- 
prehend them. 

The  man  seized  her  hand,  and  held  her  back  by  main 
force.  But  she  was  so  wild,  so  desperate  and  deter- 
mined, that  the  girl  was  soon  the  master,  in  her  madness. 

Dashing  him  aside,  the  dark,  wild  ])eauty  was  once 
more  before  the  calm  and  wonderful  woman,  whose  very 
beauty  only  made  her  rival  more  desperate. 

"  I  will  kill  her  !" 

*'  Xo,  no,  Dottie  !     Xo  !" 

"  And  why  shall  I  not  kill  her  f 


92  THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

"  Because — because,"  gasped  the  man,  as  lie  strug^ed 
with  the  maniac — "  because — because — 1  love  her  !" 

The  dark  and  mysterious  girl  staggered  back  to  her 
place  where  she  had  been  hiding.  Her  head  sank  on 
her  breast.  Something  was  heard  to  fall  heavily  to  the 
Moor  from  her  hand.  The  world  swam  around  her  ;  and 
an  instant  more  and  she,  too,  fell  heavily,  as  one  dead  in 
body  and  in  soul. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


PEOTECTION. 


Everything  passes.  Yontli  is  not  well  aware  of  this. 
It  is  a  truth  tauf^ht  only  in  the  school  of  experience. 
And  so  it  is  youth  revels  in  delight,  as  if  all  things  would 
hxst  forever. 

But  we  who  have  known  both  joy  and  pain,  youth  and 
age,  know  that  joy  and  ])ain  pass  as  the  seasons  pass  ; 
and  knowing  this,  we  come  to  bear  both  with  moderation. 

And  "Dot,"  even  in  childhood,  had  learned  this  les- 
son.    "What  is  so  sad  as  an  old  child  ? 

One  would  have  said  that  the  spell  of  insanity  which 
had  driven  her  to  attempt  the  life  of  Ilattie  Lane,  the 
long  strain,  the  pain,  mental  and  physical,  which  such  a 
state  of  mind  meant,  would  have  destroyed  her.  And 
maybe  it  had  killed  her  but  for  the  bitter  experience, 
her  long  suffering,  the  long,  long  array  and  succession  of 
nights,  with  all  the  days  blotted  out  from  between  them, 
which  she  had  known. 

She  had  become  used  to  trouble,  and  sorrow,  and 
shame.  It  was  nothing  terrible  now.  There  was  notliing 
terrible  any  more.  She  had  come  to  know  that  the 
longest  nights  and  the  darkest  ones  were  the  kindliest. 
They  shut  out  the  sight  of  ugly  things.  She  had  come 
to  be  as  a  wild  beast  that  loves  darkness. 

Of  course  she  did  not  reason  in  this  way,  or  reason  at 
all.  She  groped  about  in  the  darkness  that  enveloped 
her  at  this  time  by  the  dim  light  of  a  sort  of  aninuil  in- 


((4  THE    DKSTRUCTION    OF   GOTHAM. 

stinct,  wliicli  <^uides  witli  Tiiore  precision  even  tliiin  tlic 
cleiirest  reason. 

God  is  not  far  away. 

After  tlie  sudden  and  confused  event  in  tlie  Moorish 
rooms  on  Fiftli  Avenue  slie  soon  recovered  her  senses, 
arose,  and,  M'ith  tlie  friendly  protection  of  Walton  to 
guide  her  to  the  entrance,  passed  out,  calmly,  quietly, 
not  looking  back,  before,  or  right  or  left. 

She  went  directly  to  the  little  house  by  the  park,  with 
the  red  geranium  in  tlie  window,  and  chmbed  the  steep, 
narrow  little  stairs  to  her  room. 

The  child  was  in  the  park  at  play  with  her  little  Ger- 
man companions. 

The  brilliant  assemblage  on  the  avenue,  where  Hattie 
Lane  stood  silently  in  its  centre,  an  acknowledged  queen 
by  authority  of  pre-eminent  beauty  and  gracious  bear- 
ing, had  not  been  at  all  disturbed,  as  before  indicated, 
by  the  appearance  and  desperate  behavior  of  the  poor 
girl — almost  in  their  midst. 

Few  saw  her.  Fewer  still  knew  that  anything  unusual 
had  happened.  And  then  ugly  events  like  this  do  not 
always  get  to  the  press. 

One  conies  to  believe,  from  the  murmurs  of  society, 
that  reporters  are  as  merciless  as  they  are  omnipresent  ; 
that  because  they  are  ubiquitous  nothing  that  is  cruel  or 
malicious  is  permitted  to  escape  them. 

From  the  many  complaints  and  liard  words  uttered 
against  the  gatherer  of  news,  we  are  made  to  believe 
that  these  men,  the  reporters,  are  the  most  formidable 
of  foes  to  society,  the  destroyers  of  all  the  rules  that 
hedge  about  the  hearthstone,  the  profancrs  of  all  sanc- 
tities. 

Never  was  there  such  a  mistaken  impression.  If 
society  has  nothing  to  tell  to  the  world  the  reporter  is 


"  ruoTi:cTioN\"  05 

tlio  last  man  to  tell  it,  no  matter  what  has  happened  at 
its  hearthstone. 

1  have  heard  different  leaders  of  soeiety  complain  and 
Mtterly  abuse  the  reporters  for  puhlishin^  their  move- 
ments to  the  world.  And  yet  I  happen  to  know  that, 
as  a  rule,  these  same  people  f  nrnish  the  press  all,  and 
more  than  all,  that  is  said  of  them. 

Diimers  are  given,  receptions  held,  the  presence  of  the 
reporters  hoped  and  prayed  for,  and  all  the  details  fur- 
nished him,  if  he  comes,  by  fond  mammas,  who,  the  very 
next  day  of  the  announcements,  denounce  the  press  most 
bitterly  for  publishing  their  secret  doings  to  the  cold, 
unfeeling  world. 

But  we  who  know  New  York  "society,"  the 
machines,  the  shams  of  this  new,  sudden  Jonah's  gourd 
and  mushroom  civihzation  of  the  wonderful  city,  know^ 
right  well  that  nothing  is  so  dear  to  the  leaders  of  it  as 
the  publication  of  their  every  movement,  act,  utterance. 
And  we  know  as  well  liow  sacred  are  the  ill-omened 
and  inauspicious  incidents,  such  as  we  have  seen  in  the 
great  ^iloorish  chand)ei's  on  opulent  Fifth  Avenue. 
****** 

"When  Dottie  descended  from  her  little  room,  with  the 
geranium  in  the  window  looking  out  over  the  beautiful 
]>ark,  she  had  a  little  bundle  in  her  hand.  Slie  stopped 
at  the  counter,  and,  without  attracting  any  particular  at- 
tention, as  her  week  wius  due,  paid  her  bill  to  tlie  last 
cent. 

The  lionest  German,  who  was  Imsy  handing  out  beer 
to  a  long  string  of  clay-stained  laborers,  did  not  quite  get 
at  any  definite  notion  of  what  the  girl  was  doing  or 
where  she  was  going  with  the  little  bundle  in  her  left 
hand. 

AVhen  eagerly  asked  and  asked,  agani  and  a^'ain,  l)y 


9C  Till::    DESTRUCTION    OF   GOTHAM. 

Walton,  when  he  came  to  seek  lier  soon  after,  lie  said  he 
had  but  a  dim  notion  of  what  she  was  about  ;  that  he 
took  the  money  mechanically,  and  thought  that  she  might 
be  going  to  the  theatre  with  her  little  bundle,  or  maybe 
to  some  dressmaker  to  have  her  wardrobe  changed  or 
altered.  Certainly  he  had  no  notion  that  he  would  never 
see  her  sweet  face  any  more. 

Once  safely  out  of  the  house,  she  almost  ran.  She 
soon  reached  one  of  the  great  gates  of  the  park,  entered 
hastily,  and  looking  eagerly  about  for  her  child,  and  not 
seeing  her,  she  disappeared  up  one  of  the  many  cool 
paths  in  search  of  her. 

The  girl  had  not  shed  a  tear.  Her  large,  burning  eyes 
were  dry,  dry  as  flame.  Iler  lips  were  dry.  Her  great, 
full,  ruby  lips  were  dry,  and  drawn,  and  colorless. 

Her  hair  was  falling  down  about  her  face.  But  she 
did  not  know  this  ;  she  did  not  notice  it  till  just  now, 
when  she  stopped  at  a  crossing  of  the  path,  and  peered 
through  the  overhanging  trees  and  bushes  for  her  child. 

She  pushed  it  back,  brushed  it  aside  from  her  great, 
lovely  eyes,  so  that  she  could  see  more  clearly. 

But  she  had  not  time  to  fasten  it  up  again.  It  was 
coming  down  on  her  like  a  mantle,  like  a  widow's  veil, 
as  one  in  the  deepest  mourning.  Night  was  coming 
down  upon  her — mental,  moral,  physical  night. 

She  had  scarcely  spoken  all  day.  Yet  now,  as  she 
hastened  on,  thro^ving  back  her  hair,  leaning  and  look- 
ing forward,  now  j^eering  through  the  trees,  she  heard 
all  the  time  ringing  in  her  ears,  stinging  her  soul,  rasp- 
ing like  rusty  iron,  his  hard,  seltish,  hopeless  words  in 
answer  to  her  cry  :  "  Why  shall  I  not  kill  her  ?"  "  Be- 
cause— because  I  love  her  !' ' 

Once  she  suddenly  stopped  in  her  dazed  search  in  the 
park,  stopped  short,  and  stood  up  straight  and  strong. 


'' I'UOTECTION."  Qt 

"  Wliy,  tliat  is  just  the  reason  I  slioiild  have  killed 
her  !  Why  didn't":  do  it?  FU— "  She  lifted  up  her 
two  little  liands,  and  looked  at  them  helplessly. 

They  were  empty  now.  And  so,  with  a  great  si<:;h, 
that  shook  her  shock  of  hair  still  lower  about  her  shoul- 
ders, she  hastened  on  still  deeper  in  the  woods. 

In  a  sudden  turn  of  the  path  in  this  beautifully-ordered 
park,  so  full  of  sweet  surprises,  she  came  upon  a  little 
clearing  in  the  deep  wood. 

On  the  edge  of  this,  under  the  weeping-willows, 
wound  a  little  rivulet.  Lilies  grew  on  the  bank  of  it, 
and  it  had  little  pools  or  bays  here  and  there  along  its 
bank. 

The  shadows  lay  deep  and  cool  over  the  group  of 
children,  playing  peacefully,  almost  silently,  by  the 
water. 

They  were  watching  a  little  boat  which  they  had  made 
out  of  a  fallen  laat-year's  leaf  from  one  of  the  oaks.  In 
the  midst  of  this  grou])  of  fair-haired  Saxon  children  was 
the  dark  and  rapturous  little  Dollie,  watching  the  boat 
with  her  deep,  wonderful  eyes,  seeing  her  own  beauty  in 
the  water. 

All  the  mother''s  heart  rose  up  in  the  frenzied  girl 
now  ;  and  it  was  such  a  relief  !  The  intense  clutching 
and  grasping  of  the  poor  little  hands  relaxed.  The  lips 
were  less  drawn.  They  took  back  a  little  something  of 
their  color  again. 

Even  the  black  abundance  of  her  hair  had  something 
less  terrible  and  savage  in  it  now,  and  she  sank  into  a 
bench  at  the  side  of  the  path,  a  better  woman  than  she 
had  been  for  a  long,  long  time,  at  the  sight  of  the  little 
innocent  at  play  in  the  cool  peace  and  rest  of  the 
park. 

She  was  glad  she  had  not  been  discovered  by  the  happy 


98  THE    DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

little  people  witli  the  little  ship  made  from  the  brown 
leaf. 

She  laid  her  bundle  down,  and  with  her  two  hands  she 
hastily  arranged  and  bound  np  her  massive  tempest  of 
hair.  She  rested  then  and  smiled.  Then  seeing  her 
bundle  at  her  feet,  she  started.  She  remembered  that 
she  was  homeless,  shelterless  now,  and  saw  with  a  sigh 
that  night  was  upon  lier. 

She  lifted  the  bundle  up,  laid  it  back  behind  the  bench 
in  the  deep  grass,  drew  some  boughs  and  grasses  about 
it,  and,  going  hastily  forward,  took  the  child  by  the 
hand,  and  without  a  word  hastened  away. 

Another  child  would  have  remonstrated,  even  cried 
out.  This  one  had  learned  to  obey,  to  follow  on  and  on 
and  on  and  on,  with  a  vague  terror  in  her  heart,  wher- 
ever her  mother  led.     She  soon  took  up  the  bundle. 

The  children  with  the  boat  were  very  busy  with  their 
ship  and  its  curious  little  passengers. 

One  of  these  passengers  was  a  little  black  ant,  that  was 
not  at  all  satisfied  with  the  voyage,  and  was  all  the  time 
trying  to  get  ashore.     This  interested  them  greatly. 

Then  they  had  also  caught  a  very  small  butterfly,  and 
almost  killed  it  in  doing  so.  It  lay  helplessly  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat.     The  ship  was  filling  with  water. 

It  had  struck  the  edge  of  the  current,  and  was  eddy- 
ing about  swiftly. 

The  poor  little  butteifly  prisoner  was  in  the  water.  It 
was  a  moment  of  intense  excitement. 

When  the  boat  had  been  borne  away  with  the  current, 
after  striking  a  tall  spear  of  grass,  where  the  black  ant 
climbed  out,  and  became  a  sort  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  to 
the  great  satisfaction  of  the  children,  they  looked  up  for 
Dollie.  Child  and  mother  had  both  disappeared,  and, 
half  frightened,  they  hastened  to  return  home. 


''PROTECTION."  99 

"  Tlie  guilty  flcctli  wlicn  no  man  pursnetli  ;  but  the 
rigliteous  man  lie  is  bold  as  a  lion." 

It  is  not  certain  that  the  girl  had  any  real  apprehen- 
sion of  arrest  at  all  in  the  beginning  of  her  flight.  It 
"was  only  that  insensible,  irresistible  desire  which  over- 
takes us  at  times  to  escape. 

To  escape  from  "what  ?  Ourselves,  the  "wretchedness 
that  is  in  us.  And  even  the  best  of  us,  "when  the  best 
that  is  in  us  only  has  expression,  if  over- weary  and  over- 
"worn  from  some  long  and  intense  trial  or  concern — ah  ! 
we  too  often  desire  to  fly  away,  to  escajDe  from  every 
human  being. 

"  Oh,  that  I  had  the  wings  of  a  dove  to  fly  away  and 
be  at  rest  !" 

As  slie  pushed  on  through  the  park  toward  the  south 
side,  having  a  vague  notion  that  she  should  seek  out  the 
lower  and  hard  haunts  of  the  city  and  hide  there,  the 
shadows  lay  dark  and  hung  hea\Tly  across  her  j^ath. 
People  passed  hurriedly.  They,  too,  seemed  to  have  in 
their  hearts  some  sort  of  desire  to  escape. 

Some  of  these  hurrying  people  stopped  suddenly  as 
they  met  her  or  crossed  her  path  and  looked  at  her  for  a 
moment  intently. 

She  did  not  suspect  that  it  was  her  unconscious  beauty, 
her  abundance  of  hair,  and  the  large,  lifted  eyes  of  the 
silent,  pitiful  child  hurrying  on  tiptoe  at  her  side,  as 
she  almost  ran,  holding  DoUie  tight  and  hard  by  the 
hand. 

She  began  now  to  have  a  deflnite  fear.  This  fear 
grew  and  deepened  as  night  gathered  about  her  and  the 
shadows  grew  deeper.  She  saw  an  oflicer  of  the  park  at 
length  coming  down  the  path  on  his  round  of  duty. 
Then  she  turned  sliarply  and  ran. 

The  officer  followed. 


100  THE    DESTRUCTION^   OF   GOTHAM. 

She  caught  up  the  child  and  ran  witli  all  her  might. 
Had  she  at  this  moment  found  one  of  the  many  little 
lakes  of  the  park  in  her  path,  she  would  have  plunged 
into  it  and  hidden  away  in  its  waters.  Finally  she  came 
to  the  open  avenue  to  the  east.  She  was  surprised, 
stunned.  She  would  have  turned  about,  and  buried  her- 
self once  more  in  the  \voods,  but  the  officer,  she  knew, 
w:ls  close  behind  her. 

With  the  child  still  in  her  arras  she  crossed  the  avenue, 
and  hurried  on  down  Sixtieth  Street  toward  the  river. 
Finally  she  stopped,  out  of  breath,  nearly  ready  to  fall, 
and  ventured  to  turn  and  look  back. 

She  caught  in  her  breath,  and  a  great  sigh  of  relief 
came  from  her  panting  breast. 

The  officer  was  standing  quietly  on  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  looking  curiously  after  her,  with  no  purpose  of 
pursuit  in  his  indifferent  attitude. 

A  few  steps  farther  brought  her  to  a  vacant  lot,  where 
she  sat  down  and  tried  to  rest.  The  child  nestled  up 
against  the  dusty  skirt  of  her  mother's  dress,  and  lay 
there  like  a  little,  panting,  tired,  homeless  dog  at  her 
feet,  looking  up  in  her  face  with  her  great,  plaintive  eyes 
inquiringly,  not  daring  to  say  one  word. 

The  mother  gathered  up  her  own  long  hair  a  little 
once  more  as  she  sat  there,  feeling  more  forlorn  and  more 
entirely  miseral)le  than  she  had  ever  felt  in  her  life. 

The  reaction  of  the  past  few  wretched  days  was  com- 
ing on  with  terrible  penalty.  She  began  to  be  haunted 
by  fear,  and  most  terribly  now. 

She  had  a  conviction  that  the  stage-entrance  to  the 
theatre  would  be  watched  by  an  innumerable  and  des- 
iderate force  of  detectives.  She  felt  certain  that  the 
little  window  with  the  red  geranium  would  be  watched 
for  a  week.     She  fancied^  believed  that  Matherson  had 


"protection."  101 

tried  more  than  once,  and  in  many  ways,  to  dispose  of 
her  entirely  and  sweep  her  out  of  his  path  ;  that  now  he 
would  take  this  occasion  to  accomphsh  his  desire. 

For  one  so  weak,  mentally  and  physically,  she  made 
her  plans  of  flight  with  some  precision.  AVild  beasts 
when  followed  fly  to  the  densest  of  their  thickets. 

Man  does  nnich  the  same  ;  for  man  at  such  times  is  a 
beast. 

This  girl  had  worked  in  a  paper-box  factory  in  the 
lower  and  thickly  populated  part  of  the  city.  She  had 
also  tried  to  make  cigarettes,  but  she  had  never  been  able 
to  get  on  there  quite.  She  lived  on  but  little,  yet  that 
little  she  had  found  it  impossible  to  earn. 

She  had  a  vague  recollection  of  a  couple  of  rather 
polite  and  very  pompous  old  gentlemen  who  used  to 
come  about  quietly  among  the  girls  and  levy  little  assess- 
ments to  help  the  political  party  of  "  Protection."  She 
had  given  a  little  money  for  this  more  than  once.  It 
was  very,  very  little,  but  she  had  given  that  little  freely  ; 
for  that  word  seemed  to  her  to  mean  so  much — Protec- 
tion ! 

She  imagined  hei*self  once  more  pureued,  as  when  she 
first  entered  the  great  city,  and  so  needed  "  protection." 
She  had  a  dim  notion  that  this  money  these  courteous 
old  political  assessors  got  from  the  ten  thousand  laborers 
engaged  in  the  many  kinds  of  factories  smoking  in  that 
miserable  part  of  the  city  might  protect  hor — help  her. 
She  thought  this  money  was  given  to  protect  helpless 
girls  in  her  condition  of  that  first  fearful  night. 

You  see,  the  tires  of  that  first  agonizing  night  when  she 
first  entered  New  York  had  burned  away  the  supports 
of  her  bewildered  brain.  On  this  subject  she  was  cer- 
tainly mad.  The  idea  of  being  so  persistently,  so  inces- 
santly pursued  had  never  quite  forsaken  her  ivftgr  thut 


102  THE   DESTRUCTION   OF  GOTHAM, 

first  night.     It  was  the  one  dream  that  was  forever  start- 
ling her  in  her  sleep. 

And  now  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  all  to  be  gone 
over  again  in  reality.     Protection  ! 

The  girl  remembered  a  little  place  up  a  narrow  alley 
that  seemed  quite  hidden  out  of  sight  of  all.  She  had 
once  when  ill  visited  another  girl  there  from  the  paper- 
box  factory,  and  spent  a  week  with  lier  there  ;  and  she 
now  remembered  with  satisfaction  that  she  had  never  in 
all  that  time  seen  a  policeman  come  to  the  door  of  that 
house. 

She  would  go  there.     Protection  ! 
-     She  arose  ;  started.     An  officer  was  coming  from  the 
park.     It  was  nearly  dark  and  the  night  was  chill. 

But,  catching  up  her  child,  she  was  soon  flying  down 
the  street  wildly  toward  the  elevated-railroad  station,  the 
one  place  of  all  the  world  before  her.  She  sprang  up 
the  steps,  child  in  arms,  as  if  she  were  unincumbered. 
She  looked  back  from  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  the  officer 
was  a  block  away.  It  was  with  infinite  comfort  that  she 
paid  her  fare,  stepped  unquestioned  into  the  car,  felt  it 
glide  away,  and  then  nestled  down  in  a  corner,  with  her 
baby  in  her  arms. 

She  was  safe,  and  no  one  came  to  molest  her.  The 
car  was  empty,  going  down-town  at  this  hour,  and 
she  felt  that  she  certainly  should  escape.  She  took  her 
baby  more  closely  in  her  lap  at  last,  and  petted  it  and 
fondled  it. 

After  a  swift,  sweet  and  restful  ride  she  got  out,  de- 
scended, and  came  to  the  narrow,  dirty,  old  but  familiar 
street.  It  was  quite  dark  here,  as  she  hurriedly  pushed 
up  the  crowded  way  toward  the  alley  where  her  friend 
and  fellow-laborer  had  lived. 

Some  great,   noisy,   fat  and  red-faced  policemen   of 


"PROTECTION.  103 

enonuous  size  stood  on  the  sidewalks  and  corners,  swing- 
ing their  clubs  leisurely  and  looking  sharp  in  the  eyes  of 
every  one  as  they  passed. 

They  looked  at  her  till  she  was  terrified,  and  once 
more  almost  broke  into  a  run.  One  policeman  followed 
her  leisurely.  Slie  looked  back  as  she  turned  sharply  up 
the  alley  and  saw  that  ho  had  stopped  and  was  looking 
after  her.    Another  came  up,  and  the  two  talked  together. 

One  of  the  two  big  and  brutal-looking  officers  lifted 
his  club,  and  pointing  it  after  her,  seemed  to  shake  it 
suggestively.  She  was  certain  she  had  been  discovered, 
that  all  the  city  knew  she  had  attempted  to  commit  a 
murder,^  and  that  she  should  be  arrested  and  sent  to  a 
place  more  terrible  than  the  asylum  on  the  Island. 

The  door  was  open,  as  are  the  doors  of  all  these  miser- 
able dens,  caves,  cages,  down  there  at  night,  where 
misery  hides  away  from  the  light  of  the  sun  by  day  and 
the  face  of  man  by  night,  and  the  girl  entered  with  a 
beating  heart.  She  bounded  up  the  dark  steps  like  a 
wild  goat  on  the  crags,  even  with  the  child  in  hur  arms. 
Fear  was  behind  her. 

The  poor  and  miserable  are  the  only  people  who  are 
really  good  to  the  poor -and  miserable. 

The  girl  here  in  the  top  of  the  house  had  gone  to  bed. 
The  door  was  not  fastened,  because  there  was  nothinf  to 
fasten  it  with.     Locks  and  keys  are  luxuries, 

"  Save  me  !  save  me  !  They  are  after  me.  I  tried 
to  kill  that  woman,  and  they  are  after  me  !"  gasped  the 
terrified  girl,  as  she  threw  herself  across  the  hard  mat- 
tress on  two  boxes,  where  lay  the  tired  and  worn-out 
figure  of  the  factory-! uind. 

It  was  nothing  new,  this  fiying  from  the  face  of  man, 
to  the  bit  of  humanity  there.  The  weary  factory-girl 
opened  her  eyes,  rose  up,  closed  the  door  tightly,  and 


104  THE    DESTRUCTION    OF   GOTHAM. 

placed  the  two  boxes  and  the  mattress  as  noiselessly  as 
possible  hard  against  the  door. 

She  put  her  linger  to  her  lips,  and  then,  without  one 
word,  took  up  the  little  child,  undressed  it,  and  laid  it  in 
her  place  in  the  bed.  Then  the  two  sat  there,  silent  in 
the  dark  together,  listening,  listening. 

The  child  started,  sat  up  in  bed,  and  began  to  cry  for 
water. 

The  startled  mother  sprang  up,  stood  over  her  in  a 
savage,  menacing  manner,  aud  hissed  out  :  "  Do  you 
want  me  to  kill  you  ?" 

"  No,  no,  no." 

''  Then  lie  down,  or  I  will  kill  you." 

The  desperation  of  whispered  word  and  nervous  action 
told  the  dreadful  tension  to  which  the  poor  creature's 
nerves  were  strung. 

The  child  did  not  answer.  You  might  have  seen  its 
little  chin  quiver,  the  eyes  flood  with  tears,  but  she  hid 
down  there,  and  did  not  even  dare  to  sob  or  sigh,  and  was 
soon  fast  asleep. 

' '  I  am  dying  for  water,  too, ' '  wliispered  the  poor 
mother. 

Not  a  word  did  her  companion  speak,  but,  taking  an 
old  can  that  had  been  cut  and  hammered  into  a  cup,  she 
drew  back  the  boxes  a  few  inches,  and  wedged  her  thin 
way  through  and  out,  as  she  passed  on  down  the  half- 
dozen  flights  of  dirty  stairs. 

Once  in  the  basement,  where  the  water  ran  for  the 
whole  supply  of  the  hundreds  hidden  away  in  this  miser- 
able place,  she  could  not  forbear  looking  out,  listening 
to  see  if  any  one  was  watching  the  house. 

She  saw  a  broad  hat  move  out  from  the  mouth  of  the 
alley,  and  look  up  and  down  the  street.  She  hurried  to 
the  front  door,  which  was  on  a  level  with  the  street,  and 


"PROTECTION."  105 

hastily  closed  it.  She  listened  a  long  time,  but  the  man, 
whetlier  a  detective  or  not,  did  not  conic. 

She  thought  of  the  thirsty  girl  up-stairs. 

As  she  turned  and  hastened  up  the  stairs  she  felt,  or 
rather  heard,  the  door  open  behind  her.  Then  she  felt, 
or  heard,  some  one  following  her  in  the  dark.  She  in- 
creased her  speed,  and  fairly  bounded  up  the  steps. 
This  only  made  the  pursuer  seem  more  alert. 

Once  she  stopped,  turned,  and  felt  possessed  with  a 
quick  desire  to  grapple  with  this  man,  this  some  one,  in 
the  dark,  grasp  him  by  the  throat,  and  so  leap  down, 
down,  down. 

She  would  save  herself  by  killing  herself  and  the  de- 
tective together  ;  but  then,  after  a  moment,  she  turned 
about  and  sped  up  the  steps  as  swiftly  as  before.  He 
was  close  to  her  heels  as  she  came  to  her  door. 

She  passed  in  hastily,  and  attempted  to  close  the  door 
behind  her. 

But  too  late  !  A  huge  arm  was  thrust  in  through  the 
opening.     The  man's  body  followed. 

The  two  girls  fell  back  in  the  darkness  together,  the 
child  still  sleeping  soundly.  The  two  terrified  girls 
clasped  hands  and  tremblingly  waited. 

They  did  not  have  to  wait  long  ;  and  yet  they  waited 
years. 

The  only  instrument  that  ever  measured  time  correctly 
is  the  human  heart. 

They  could  hear  the  man  breathing,  as  he  stood  there 
in  the  door  facing  them.  Tiiey  heard  him  fumbling  in 
his  pocket  among  the  keys  and  pencils  and  the  like,  as  if 
for  a  match-box. 

Dottie's  distorted  fears  conjured  these  things  she  heard 
rattling  to  be  manacles  and  chains  for  her.  Then  there 
was  the  scratching  of  a  match. 


106  THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

Then  the  liglit  leapt  out,  full  blown  instantly,  and  filled 
the  room. 

The  man  held  the  match  high  up  over  his  head  with 
liis  left  hand,  and  with  his  right  pushed  back  the  broad 
slouch  hat  from  a  patient,  kindly  face  and  ample  brow. 

It  was  her  dearest  friend  in  this  world,  gentle,  un- 
selfish old  Joe  Walton,  the  reporter. 


CHArXER  XII. 


DOWN-TOWN. 


The  smile  left  the  plain,  honest  face  of  "Walton  as  he 
stood  there  in  the  half-open  door,  holding  up  the  wax 
match  above  his  head,  as  he  saw  the  two  girls  huddled 
together  back  in  the  corner  of  the  wretched  room,  and 
pale  with  terror. 

But  his  presence  of  mind  did  not  forsake  him.  A 
little  tin  lamp  sat  on  the  single  wooden  chair  by  the  side 
of  the  door.  He  stooped,  touched  the  expiring  match  to 
the  wick,  and  went  on  talking  (piietlj,  and  as  if  entirely 
unconcerned. 

He  took  out  the  little  greasy  lamp,  and  sat  down  on  a 
corner  of  one  of  the  boxes. 

"  You  see,  I  had  to  come  down-town,  anyway,  to  re- 
port the  grand  afternoon  party  to  my  paper,  and  I 
thought  I  would  call  and  see  you,  as  I  was  so  near.  I 
have  heard  you  speak  of  her  often." 

The  man  motioned  with  the  lamp  to  the  pale,  thin  girl, 
who  now  half  leaned  against  the  wall  in  the  corner,  as 
lie  set  the  lamp  down  on  a  rickety  table  a  little  farther 
along  from  the  door,  and  wiped  his  fingers  on  a  lifted 
shoe. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  this  place  well.  I  have  been  sent  to 
a  good  many  houses  like  this  to  write  about  them  ;  but 
the  papers  won't  ])ublish  all  the  facts,  because,  you  see, 
rich  men  own  these  miserable  places,  and  they  don't  want 
them  pulled  down,  as  they  should  be.     They  are  all  in- 


108  THE    DESTUUCTION'    OF    GOTHAM. 

sured  heavily,  and  tliey  wait  for  them  to  burn  down. 
Then  tliey  get  tlie  insurance.  Sometimes  they  fall  down, 
however,  before  they  are  burned  down." 

The  two  girls  relaxed  their  hold  of  each  other's  hands, 
and  came  a  little  forward. 

One  of  them  gradually  settled  down  on  a  corner  of  one 
of  the  boxes.  The  child  still  lay  on  the  mattress  asleep. 
The  other  girl  leaned  on  the  little  table  where  sat  the  flar- 
ing lamp,  as  the  man  quietly  went  on  addressing  Dottie. 

"  But  you  should  not  have  left  the  other  place  so 
soon,  at  least  not  without  your  dinner."  And  here  he 
began  to  draw  something  from  his  spacious  coat- pockets, 
and  lay  it  on  the  table  before  the  large  and  wondering 
eyes  of  the  silent  girl.  "  I  knew  you  would  be  hungry, 
and — and — "  the  man  leaned  over  to  one  side,  and  toyed 
at  something  deep  down  in  his  pocket,  and  finally  brought 
it  forth  with  a  flourish — "  and  thirsty,  too." 

He  held  a  cool,  dripping  bottle  of  soda  Avater  high  in 
the  air,  waved  it  about,  and  snapped  off  the  cork  with  a 
report  that  startled  the  two  timid  girls. 

It  broke  their  silence  and  sadness  ;  and,  glancing  at 
eacli  other,  they  laughed  outright  and  heartily. 

"  Ah  !  here  is  a  glass,  or,  what  is  better  than  a  glass, 
for  it  will  hold  more,  a  can  just  made  for  the  purpose." 

And  pouring  out  the  water  which  the  pale,  thin  girl 
had  brought  up  a  moment  before  into  a  bucket  at  hand, 
he  emptied  the  cold,  sparkling  soda  into  the  can  with  a 
guzzling  sound,  that  seemed  to  be  almost  an  echo  of  the 
girlish  laughter,  and  with  another  flourish  he  held  it  up 
before  the  lips  that  had  not  yet  spoken. 

And  then  the  thin,  pale  factory-girl  shared  the  remain- 
ing half. 

Oh,  the  pleasure,  the  joy  of  a  cool  draught  when  one 
is  thirsty,  dying  of  thii'st  ! 


DOWN-TOWK".  109 

Yon  "who  have  never  seen  deserts,  scorching  sands,  and 
burning  suns — seen  father,  mother,  brother,  friends — all 
falling  down  as  if  dead  for  water,  and  then  suddenly 
found  the  cool  rock  in  the  desert  bursting  forth  with 
sweet  waters — waters  that  talked  to  you,  laughed  in  your 
face,  rippled  at  your  feet — have  not  yet  felt  the  force  of 
that  simple  promise  in  words  not  unlike  these  :  "  He 
who  gives  one  of  these  little  ones  a  cup  of  cold  water  in 
my  name  shall  inherit  heaven." 

Their  lips  were  suddenly  unsealed  now.  They  ate  and 
they  talked  like  reasonable  human  beings,  these  two  ter- 
rified creatures  of  half  an  hour  before,  and  the  world  was 
surely  another  world  to  them. 

"  Yes,  business  is  slack  with  me  now,"  the  pale,  thin 
one  said. 

"  Business  is  slack  !" 

It  is  an  old  and  familiar  expression  among  the  poor  of 
the  factories  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other.  The 
shopkeeper  hears  it  a  hundred  times  a  day.  It  is  an  ex- 
pression which  answers  for  all  occasions.  If  one  has 
been  sick,  idle,  drunk,  this  is  the  one  sad  and  simple  ex- 
pression which  the  rent-man,  the  gas-man,  the  grocery- 
man — all  hear,  week  in  and  week  out  :  "  Business  has 
been  slack  with  me  !" 

"  But  it  will  be  Ijcttcr  when  the  summer  is  over,"  the 
pale  girl  said,  with  a  hopeful  lift  of  her  face. 

You  see  the  poor  are  permitted  to  hope. 

Aye — thank  God  for  it — to  hope  even  against  hope. 

Her  brother  who  lived  with  her  was  a  printer.  He 
was  on  a  stnke,  she  said  ;  a  "  lock-out  "  she  called  it. 
The  man,  who  had  sharpened  a  pencil  and  was  dotting 
down  some  fact  or  fancy  which  seemed  to  strike  him  as 
the  girl  talked  on,  only  nodded  his  head  here. 

He  niailc  a  mental  note,  however,  and  for  "strike" 


110  THE   BESTRUCTIOK   OP   GOTHAM. 

wrote  "  drimk."  For  "lock-out"  he  wrote  "lock- 
up." 

And  little  wonder  !  What  else  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
misery  ?  Why  will  cities  always  and  forever  put  all  their 
parks,  and  all  their  fountains,  and  all  their  pleasant  places 
miles  and  miles  away  from  the  homes  and  places  of  em- 
ployment of  the  poor,  of  the  only  people  who  want 
them,  need  them,  when  they  have  never  either  the  time 
or  the  money  to  reach  them  ? 

As  for  herself  ;  yes,  she  had  been  offered  a  chance  to 
go  to  the  seaside.  But,  you  see,  her  clothes  were  not  fit. 
She  had  been  out  of  work  so  long.  Business  had  been 
slack  with  her  ! 

' '  But  these  good  ladies  who  offered  you  this  chance 
to  go  to  the  seaside  don't  ask  you  to  dress  up  ?" 

"  Listen  to  me,  mister.  1  reckon  they  do.  I  reckon 
when  a  fine  lady  fixes  up  a  cottage,  and  fills  it  with  girls, 
she  wants  'em  to  look  spruce  and  clean  and  Sunday- 
sehooly.  Oh,  don't  shake  your  head  ; '  1  know  they  do  ! 
One  of  our  girls  in  the  factory  went  once.  And  the 
woman  with  the  cottage  brought  people  there  to  see 
them  every  day,  she  did.  And  she  brought  preachers, 
lots  of  preachers,  that  all  the  time  wanted  to  talk  to 
them  about  their  sins.  Well,  it  just  made  Liz  sick. 
And  Liz — that's  the  one  that  went — Liz  said  that  they 
jest  kept  her  bobbin'  up  and  down  all  the  time  to  show 
off  her  good  manners  and  improved  style.  She  came 
back  thin  as  a  tobacker  stem  and  almost  as  brown.  And 
so,  mister,  I  didn't  much  care  to  go  anyhow,  you  see." 

"  Speaking  of  tobacco" — the  man  stopped  driving  his 
pencil  with  nervous  rapidity  over  the  note-book,  and 
looked  up — "  speaking  of  tobacco,  and  seeing  your  busi- 
ness is  slack,  I  think  I  can  get  you  work." 

The  pale,  thin  girl  came  up  close  and  eager.     "  Yes," 


DOWN-TOWN.  Ill 

the  man  continued  ;  "I  know  a  place  wliere  tliey  let 
out  tobacco.  But  you  will  have  to  put  up  for  the 
tobacco. ' ' 

The  girl  instinctively  fell  back  a  little,  and  was  just 
about  to  say  she  did  not  think  she  would  particularly  like 
to  handle  tobacco  ;  she  was  going  to  say  it  was  not  good 
for  lier  health,  her  hands,  the  complexion — anything. 
For,  be  it  observed  here,  the  good  God  has  left  the 
poor  one  thing  more  besides  hope — that  is  pride. 

"  Yes,  you  will  have  to  put  up  for  the  tobacco,  and  1 
will  put  up  for  you. "  The  girl  still  stood  aloof  ;  her  two 
hands  were  locked  together,  and  held  low  down  before 
her.  "  You  can  pay  me  back  the  first  week,  both  of 
you."  He  nodded  to  the  large-eyed  girl  who  stood  fur- 
ther away.  She  too  came  up  closer,  and  stood  at  the  side 
of  her  hospitable  friend.  "  Yes,  and  you  will  have  to 
put  up  only  for  the  first  week  ;  after  that  your  character 
will  be  enough.  They  will  take  your  word  after  the 
work  is  returned  all  right  fur  the  first  week." 

Two  faces  were  radiant.  There  was  so  much  happi- 
ness in  that  little  dingy  old  house,  that  the  one  room  could 
hardly  contain  it. 

And  that  happiness  overflowed  in  laughter  and  merri- 
ment not  a  moment  after,  and  literally  filled  the  dark 
and  dismal  old  hall  without,  as  the  man  went  on  in  a 
merry  way  with  his  plans  for  the  two  girls  and  the  child 
asleep  in  the  arms  of  Mercy.  The  man  came  back  to 
say  :  "  Why,  yes  ;  you  can  bring  the  tobacco  up  here. 
You  can  sit  by  this  window,  where  the  hght  is  good  and 
the  air  is  good,  because  it  is  so  near  to  heaven  ;  and 
there  is  plenty  of  room  for  two  of  you — for  three. 
Then  the  brother  can  come,  you  see,  and  let  the  '  lock- 
out '  go.  Yes,  and  he  can  bring  the  tobacco  up,  take  it 
back — be  a  brother  indeed.     And  maybe,  after  you  have 


112  THE   DESTRUCTION   OP   GOTHAII. 

Jill  got  almost  rich,  and  help  each  other  very,  very  much, 
this  mythical  brother  might  fall  in  love  with  Dottie,  and 
— and — and — " 

Again  this  happiness  np  near  the  sky  filled  full  and 
overflowed  the  dingy  little  garret  and  filled  the  dark  old 
stairway  with  laughter  through  the  half-open  door,  which 
had  lost  its  lock  and  key  from  old  age,  as  a  poor  old  man 
loses  his  teeth. 

The  man  turned  about,  thrust  his  completed  notes  deep 
in  his  pocket,  and  looking  keenly  at  his  watch,  once  more 
tapped  tlie  floor,  musing,  as  if  he  ought  to  bo  hastening 
on  his  way  but  did  not  quite  like  to  leave.  The  large- 
eyed  girl  came  up  close  to  him,  glanced  back  over  her 
shoulder,  and  then  at  the  child. 

"  They — they  will  not  find  me  here  ?" 

"My  child,  they  won't  want  to  find  you.  They 
will  only  want  to  find  it — Dollie  !" 

The  girl  started,  fell  back,  put  up  her  hand  to  her 
head,  as  if  she  was  trying  to  hold  her  thoughts  together 
and  keep  her  best  senses  about  her. 

There  was  something  that  involved  more  than  liberty 
— life.  The  man  looked  at  his  watch  again,  then  at  the 
eager,  strained  face  of  the  girl  ;  and  then,  as  if  calmly 
taking  time  by  the  hand,  he  said  : 

"It  is  nothing  new,  nothing  new  to  me  ;  and  I  had 
as  well  tell  you  now,  perhaps,  as  at  any  time  ;  and  it  is 
not  of  any  consequence  now  that  you  are  here.  No  ;  they 
will  not  find  you  or  it,  Dottie,  up  here,  I  think, 

"  You  see,  this  is  an  undiscovered  country  down  here, 
or  rather  up  here,  to  all  the  other  part  of  the  great  city  ; 
and  if  you  do  not  go  out  and  about  I  think  no  one  will 
find  you  here  for  a  thousand  years. ' ' 

"  But — but — Dollie — who — what  do  they  want  with 
hcr'f 


DOWN-TOWN".  113 

"  Yes,  Dollie.  "Well,  you  know  that  old  woman,  that 
old  monster  with  the  basket  who  first  followed  you  ?" 

The  girl  threw  wp  her  hands,  as  if  to  plead,  to  protest. 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  it  is  a  wretched  subject  ;  and  so,  al- 
though I  knew — knew  all  the  time  what  she  was  about 
for  the  past  three  years,  1  have  not  said  one  word,  I 
have  not  mentioned  her  ;  but  now  I  will  tell  you  about 
her.  You  see,  she  is  wealthy  now.  Yes,  she  has  a 
splendid  house  on  Fifth  Avenue.  She  has  horses,  car- 
riages, dogs— even  a  pew  in  a  fashionable  cluii'ch. 
Strange,  isn't  it  ?" 

The  man  stopped,  looked  at  her  great,  wondering  eyes, 
put  out  his  hand  to  touch  her  wondrous  hair,  and  as  she 
stepped  back  out  of  his  reach,  went  on  : 

"  Strange,  strange  !  Here  you  have  toiled,  starved. 
You  have  kept  your  sweet  soul  white  like  snow.  I  have 
not  even  so  much  as  kissed  your  little  brown  hand,  Dot- 
tie,  nor  has  any  man,  so  far  as  your  will  was  consulted  ; 
and  yet  here  are  you — she  up  there  in  luxury  and 
sullen  dor. " 

"ButDollie?" 

"  Ah  !  yes,  Dollie.  Well,  there  was  a  bad  man,  who 
was  not  all  bad.  You  would  not  believe  this  if  I  told 
you  his  name.  I,  however,  ought  to  be  the  last  num  to 
see  any  good  in  that  cold  and  merciless  creature.  Yet, 
Dottie,  no  man  is  entirely,  utterly  bad.  Believe  it,  my 
child.  It  is  best  to  believe  that.  And  then  it  is  true. 
A  man  may  be  rotten  at  heart,  hollow  at  heart  like  a  tree, 
and  yet  live  on  like  a  tree,  if  there  is  sap  and  blood 
enough  in  his  veins  to  put  forth  one  single  green  leaf  ; 
and,  like  a  tree,  nuiy  make  some  bit  of  beauty  on  the 
dusty  roadside  of  life  or  shelter  one  weary  soul  from  the 
burning  sun.      It  is  ^latherson  I  mean." 

"  And  he  wants  my — my — " 


114  THE    DESTKUCTION"   OF   GOTHAM. 

"  Your  littlo  niece." 

The  girl  did  not  answer,  but  went  around  the  head  of 
the  two  boxes  to  the  side  of  the  mattress,  and  falling  on 
lier  knees,  took  the  baby's  two  hands  in  her  own  ;  and  as 
her  face  sank  down  by  that  of  the  sleeping  child  it  was 
hidden  in  the  sombre  mantle  of  hair. 

Her  shoulders  heaved  and  fell  once  or  twice  as  the 
man  came  around,  and  she  half  turned  her  head  to  listen, 
but  with  face  still  hidden  and  averted. 

"As  long  as  the  child  played  about  the  park,"  the 
man  went  on,  after  looking  once  more  at  his  watch,  and 
making  certain  that  he  was  not  going  to  get  the  woi*6t  of 
it  in  this  wrestle  with  time — "  as  long  as  they  could  see 
her  there,  and  know  that  she  was  comfortable  and  well, 
things  were  allowed  to  remain  as  they  were.  But  now, 
down  here,  where  there  is  so  much  misery,  where  God 
in  His  mercy  kills  off  three  fourths  of  the  children,  lest 
they,  too,  shall  grow  up  and  be  as  miserable  as  the  others 
here,  why,  that  old  monster,  who  has  kept  watch  over 
you  all  the  time,  will  be  instructed  to  take  Dollie  from 
you  as  surely  as  she  is  found." 

The  girl  only  held  on  more  tightly  to  the  two  little 
hands  in  her  grief  and  desperation.  Then  a  sob  broke 
from  her  breast,  as  if  rending  her  soul.  "  Kow,  Dottie, 
look  here" — the  man  bowed  down  over  her — "  that 
would  not  be  so  bad,  even  if  he  was  to  have  her  all  to 
himself.  No  ;  not  so  very  bad,  now,  1  think.  He  is 
rich,  powerful  now,  will  be  one  of  the  great  men  of  this 
great  city.  Dollie  would  be  a  lady  in  time,  with  him  to 
look  after  her.     But  \vith  you — " 

The  girl  let  go  the  hands,  rose  on  her  knees,  lifted  her 
face,  and  throwing  back  her  hair,  looked  at  him  in  such 
a  despairing  way  that  he  was  startled. 

He  could  already  see  her  catching  up  her  child,  steal- 


DOWX-TOWN".  '       115 

ing  down  tho  stairs,  %ing,  %iTig  on,  on  to  wlicrc  ? 
The  river  ?  He  nmst  undo  what  he  liad  done  ;  and  so 
lie  began  again  : 

"  The  man  m'Iio  followed  you  to  the  (ii\^(a  of  the  park 
and  turned  hack  had  oidy  instructions  to  keep  track  of 
you  there,  lie  will  wait  in  the  ])ark  one,  two,  three 
daj's,  maybe  a  week,  waiting  for  you  to  come  back.  If 
you  do  not  return  in  the  course  of  that  time,  then  he  will 
report  to  the  grand  lady,  with  the  horses  and  carriao-es 
and  dogs,  on  the  avenue  ;  then  she  M'ill  report  to  the  rich 
and  rising  Matherson.  This  will  take  a  long  time, 
Dottie.  I  was  only  saying  if,  after  all,  at  the  end  of  a 
month  or  two,  this  rich  man,  who  seems  to  be  so  pleased 
with  the  sweet  face  of  this  child,  should  finally  be  per- 
mitted to  send  her  to  school,  to  clothe  her,  keep  her  like 
a  little  lady,  Dottie  ;  and  you  could  see  her  every  day, 
Dottie,  remember— see  her  every  day,  be  with  her  all 
the  time  nearly,  Dottie  ;  why,  it  M'ouldn't  be  so  very, 
very  bad,  would  it  ?'' 

"  Wouldn't  be  so  very,  very  l)ad  ?" 
The  girl's  two  hands  again  nervously  sought  those  of 
the  child,  as  if  to  be  certain  she  still  was  at  her  side  ;  but 
she  did  not  say  more. 

She  only  looked  her  horror  and  her  terror,  her  ever- 
lasting hatred  for  that  man  and  that  old  monster  who  had 
so  prospered  on  the  sins  of  the  dreadful  city. 

Suddenly  the  man  turned  and  said,  with  one  foot  set 
toward  the  door  :  "  I  can  tnist  you  ;  and  it  will  do  you 
good  to  tell  you.  Yes,  maybe  wrath  like  yours  is  just. 
It  is  natural  and  right  in  one  who  has  been  so  bitterly 
wronged.  So  listen  to  me.  That  woman  is  to  die— die 
a  felon's  death."" 

Tlie  girl  half  arose.  Titiful  to  say,  this  pronn'se  of  re- 
venge was  like  a  shower  on  a  thirsty  garden.     It  was  not 


lie  THE    DESTRUCTION   OF   (JOTHAM. 

only  the  promise  of  revenge,  justice,  but  innnunity  from 
that  persistent,  eternal  pursuit  which  had  driven  her  to 
madness. 

"  Yes,  Dottie,"  the  man  continued,  tapping  the  foot 
next  the  door  nervously  ;  ''  her  great,  fine  house  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  wliere  she  has  lived  and  prospered  so  much  on 
sin,  shall  in  a  little  time  know  lier  no  more.  All  the 
gold  of  the  wealthy  men  who  have  made  her  what  she 
is  and  was  will  not  serve  her  now.  We — some  men  of 
the  press — have  drawn  the  lines  so  tightly  about  her,  the 
evidence  is  so  clear  and  certain — clear  and  certain  enouirh 
to  hang  a  dozen  siich  creatures — that  escape  is  simply  im- 
possible. No  ;  do  not  imagine  she  could  take  ship  or  rail 
or  special  train.  Fortune  has  blinded  lier,  thrown  gold 
into  her  unkind  old  eyes,  till  slie  can  see  nothing,  suspect 
nothing  but  luck  and  j^rosperity  for  herself.  She  has  a 
dozen  spies  watching  others.  "\Ye  have  two  dozen  spies 
watching  her  one  dozen  spies.  "When  that  man  in  her 
pay  pursued  you  to  the  edge  of  the  park  we  knew  it  in 
less  than  half  an  hour.  She  is  doomed,  girl,  I  tell  you — 
doomed  to  death.  And  if  she  does  not  die  in  that  o-reat  and 
gorgeous  house  on  Fifth  Avenue,  in  her  bower  of  roses, 
behind  her  curtains  of  silk  and  damask,  by  her  own  hand, 
she  shall  die  on  the  gallows  !     By  Heaven  !    I  swear  it." 

The  girl  sprang  up  and  came  up  so  closely  to  the  man 
that,  as  liis  lifted  hand  descended,  it  fell,  for  the  first 
time,  on  her  glory  of  hair.  It  rested  there  like  a  bene- 
diction, for  a  moment  undisturbed.  She  believed  this 
man  implicitly  ;  was  certain  that  this  monster  should  die, 
and  die  precisely  as  he  had  said  ;  and  all  the  revenge 
which  was  natural,  and  so  must  be  born  with  us,  was 
aroused  in  her  as  she  stood  there  that  night  under  the 
weight  of  a  hand  that  was  lifted  to  heaven  and  registered 
an  oath  of  vengeance. 


DOWX-TOWX.  117 

"  But  it  will  take  time,  Dottie,"  tlic  man  said,  finally 
letting  his  hand  fall.  "  You  see,  the  wealth  of  these 
men  who  have  made  her  what  she  is  will  defend  her, 
help  lier,  try  to  save  her.  "We  who  are  to  hunt  her 
down  are  poor,  almost  helpless.  And  this  seems  so 
strange  to  you.  But  you  must  understand  that  even  the 
great  newspapers  are  in  these  rich  men's  pay  oftentimes. 
Even  owners  of  these  great  corporations,  which  speak 
earnestly  of  right  and  justice  and  purity  and  truth,  are 
sometimes  her  fast  friends.  But  do  not  fear  ;  do  not 
doubt.  All  we  ask  is  time.  You  are  satisfied— certain 
that  she  shall  perish  from  the  earth — and  be  content  to 
remain  here  till  it  is  done  ;  will  you  stay  in  this  room  till 
1  say  leave  it  ?" 

*'  I  will  stay  in  this  room  till  you  say  leave  it." 

*'  Good  !  good  !  and  now  good-night." 

The  man  put  out  his  hand  to  the  girl  before  hirii, 
nodded  to  the  pale,  thin  girl  who  leaned  against  the  table 
farther  back  from  the  door  and  looked  on  in  dumb 
wonder,  and  then  turned  a  second  time  to  go. 

lie  stepped  toward  the  pale,  thin  girl  once  more,  and 
said  :  "  1  will  have  to  be  down  here  a  great  deal  in  this 
part  of  the  town.  I  will  have  to  be  here  to-morrow 
morning  to  see  about  getting  the  tobacco  for  yon  both  ; 
for  your  brother,  too — your  '  l(jck-out  '  brother.  And  1 
have  a  little  favor  to  ask.     You  will  grant  it  f 

The  pale,  thin  girl,  weary  as  she  was,  came  eagerly 
forward. 

"  I  want  you  to  get  me  up  a  first-rate  breakfast  ;  get 
it  early  and  spread  it  out  on  that  table.  S[)rcad  for 
three — for  four  if  your  '  lock-out  '  brother  is  about ; 
and  have  it  ready  at  punctually  eight  in  the  morning." 

The  girl  eagerly  and  earnestly  assented. 

*'  Here   is   the  monev — a  dollar.     It  wili  be  a  small 


lis  TUE    DKSTUUCTIOX    OF   GOTHAM, 

breakfast  for  four.  But  I  ^vould  have  to  pay  that  up- 
town for  myself,  if  1  breakfast  at  all,  and  I  want  to  see 
what  you  can  do  down  here. ' ' 

''  A— a  fried  beefsteak  ?" 

"  A  what !  I  would  make  it  a  criminal  offence  to  fry 
a  beefsteak  ;  a  doubly  criminal  offence  to  eat  a  fried  beef- 
steak. Ko,  child  ;  fruit,  bread,  coffee — a  broiled  chop,  if 
you  like  ;  but  in  summer-time  fruit — fruit,  bread  and 
fruit,  and  fruit  and  bread.  There  was  an  old  Arab 
caliph  who  rode  a  red  camel  and  lived  on  a  bottle  of 
water  and  a  fig  a  day  while  he  besieged  and  overthrew 
Jerusalem,  Ah  !  you  smile.  1  see  you  don't  quite  recall 
the  old  caliph.  Well,  anyhow,  have  fruit — good  fruit, 
clean,  healthy  fruit.  I  tell  you,  God  would  not  have 
made  fruit  so  plenty  and  meat  so  scarce  in  the  hot  sum- 
mer-time if  He  did  not  mean  for  us  to  eat  the  one  and 
avoid  the  other." 

The  man  turned,  and  was  about  to  disappear  at  last. 
Then  he  faced  about,  and  fumbling  in  his  vest-pocket, 
brought  forth  and  handed  the  girl  ten  cents.  ''  And, 
say,  get  a  pitcher  of  ice-Avater  ;  yes,  for  the  little  one 
there.     Good-by," 

"  You  will  be  here  at  eight  f 

"  At  exactly  eight,  my  little  landlady  ;  and  if  I  am 
not  here  at  exactly  eight,  just  on  the  stroke  of  the  clock, 
sit  down  and  eat  without  me,     Good-by  !" 

Dottie  pulled  at  her  companion's  sleeve.  The  girls 
looked  at  each  other,  but  the  jjale,  thin  girl  did  not  seem 
to  understand  as  Dottie  did.  Again  the  man  lifted  his 
hat,  turned  on  his  heel,  felt  a  moment  for  the  knob  on 
the  toothless  old  door  ;  then,  as  he  disappeared,  Dottie 
caught  u])  the  greasy  little  lamp,  and  standing  out  in  the 
hall,  heard  a  "  Thank  you,  Dottie"  come  up  cheerily 
from  the  stilling  depths  below. 


CKxYPTEIl  XIII. 


"a  plague-spot." 


TiiF  monstrous  creature  ^vitll  wliich  this  narrative 
opened  was  even  at  the  time  we  lirst  saw  her  a  woman 
of  no  mean  conseciuencc,  however  mean  her  assumed 
apparel  and  calHn-.  She  had  already,  as  we  have  seen, 
phmted  herself  in  the  heart  of  the  fashionahle  part  of  the 

<i;reat  city.  ,      .       ,  ,  .         .. 

But  the  plant  had  not  yet  -rown  to  the  fearful  form  it 

soon  after  .xssumed  in  this  fervid  and  feverish  life  we  have 

been  endeavoring  to  depict. 

Yet  when  her  infamous  mansion  was  completed,  and 

her  carriages  and  liveried  footman  became  a  conspicuous 

feature  in  the  very  door-yard  of  fashion  people  bc^^an 
to  look  at  each  other  in  blank  and  silent  horror.  Men 
marvelled  at  her  audacity.  ,       ,       ,    .1 

AVhen  she  took  a  pew  in  a  fashionable  church  they 
were  appalled.  They  spoke  of  her  in  whispers  and  witli 
white  lips.  Every  one  spoke  of  her,  every  one  knew  ot 
her  dark  and  deadly  work.  But  she  was  spoken  of  only 
mider  the  breath,  as  one  might  speak  of  a  deadly  shame 
that  had  entered  his  house  and  sat  down  to  abide  at  his 

hearthstone.  .^ 

The  able,    white-robed   minister   in   the    magnihcent 

church  across  the  way  was  silent. 

It  wiis  not  a  lit  theme  for  him  to  treat.  Here  w^i^  a 
sin  at  his  door  of  such  awful  shape  and  teiTor  that  he, 
for  all  Ids  glory  of  white  robes,  for  all  his  high  salary, 


120  THE    DESTRUCTION    OF    GOTHAM. 

liigh  position,  his  high  pulpit,  liis  tliousaiid  faithful  fol- 
lowing, did  not  dare  attack. 

He  pleaded  for  the  heathen,  the  missionaries  afar  off  ; 
he  prayed  for  pagans  far  awaj  ;  he  skirmished  with  the 
little  fashionable  sins  of  his  people.  But  he  had  no 
valor  for  the  shame,  the  damnation,  within  the  sound  of 
his  voice. 

People  waited  to  hear  him  speak  of  it.  His  followng 
waited  to  be  led  to  battle.     He  was  a  coward. 

The  law  stood  by  silent  and  paralyzed.  The  city  was 
given  over  to  sin,  to  plunder,  to  shameless  shame.  And 
the  officers  of  the  city  protected  this  creature  while  they 
plundered  the  treasury  of  the  great  city,  and  saddled  the 
people  with  millions  of  debts.  The  infamous  "  Ring  " 
was  in  all  its  glory. 

Meantime  this  singular  woman,  as  has  since  gradually 
come  to  be  the  custom,  from  her  fashionable  pew  in  the 
church  looked  forward  tranquilly  to  her  death,  and  bought 
a  piece  of  land,  and  built  herself  a  splendid  tomb. 

This  tomb  stands,  even  now,  in  the  heart  of  the  ceme- 
tery at  Tarrytown,  on  the  Hudson.  It  is  a  marble  mau- 
soleum. It  is  splendid,  with  a  naked  babe  in  a  cradle 
placed  on  a  massive  block  of  marble.  It  is  high  above 
and  not  far  away  from  the  simple,  chipped,  and  battered 
slab  that  marks  the  resting-place  of  Washington  Irving. 

At  one  time  this  desperate  woman  w^as  arrested,  tried, 
convicted,  and  sent  to  the  State  Prison. 

The  good  people  of  the  city  took  in  a  long  breath  of 
satisfaction  ;  but  their  delight  was  of  short  duration. 
For  brief  as  was  her  term  of  sentence,  it  w'as  soon  dis- 
covered that  she  was  all  the  time,  after  the  first  few 
days,  quietly  attending  to  her  affairs  at  her  palatial  house 
on  Fifth  Avenue. 

She  was  giving  splendid  entertainments  there  to  her 


'^A    I'LAU  UK-SPOT.  "  121 

keepers — to  the  keepers  of  the  city's  treasure  and  honor, 
too. 

But  the  undercurrent  of  indii!:n:ition  h;id  been  growing 
beyond  all  her  suspicion  of  its  power  and  peril.  The 
press,  the  purchased  press,  the  large  corporations  which 
had  been  long  silenced  by  advertisements,  pay,  in  city 
patronage,  began  to  growl  ominously. 

Walton,  as  well  as  his  few,  his  very  few  friends — men 
of  his  simple  and  secure  notions  of  honor,  right,  and 
wrong — had  never  been  for  a  single  day  silent. 

But  who  heard  them  ?  Who  could  hear  them  from 
their  dark  alleys,  their  garrets,  their  humble  abodes  ? 
They  had  no  great,  high  pulpits  to  thunder  from.  They 
had  not  powerful  organs  in  which  to  utter  protest  and 
warning. 

The  papers  that  once  spoke  for  the  people  are  no  more. 

They  had  even  now  been  merged  into  mighty  cor- 
porations. At  the  head  of  each  of  these  mighty  cor- 
porations stood  a  shrewd,  cold,  deliberate,  and  cautious 
man  of  l>usiness.  When  an  article  was  brought  to  him 
for  publication  it  was  read  deliberately,  calmly,  dispas- 
sionately, from  one  point,  and  one  point  only — Will  it 
pay  f  Will  it  drive  out  one  advertisement  or  bring  one 
in  ? 

Up  to  this  time  it  had  been  decided  by  the  great  news- 
papers whose  able  and  honest  founders  were  dead  and 
gone  that  it  would  not  pay  to  attack  the  Bastile. 

And  so  up  to  this  time  the  upas-tree  had  stood  in  the 
fashionable  heart  of  the  great  city,  casting  its  awful 
shadow,  spreading  its  influence  like  a  plague-spot,  its 
dark  and  indescribable,  indefinable  terrors  over  all, 
silencing  all. 

People  ]Kussed  by  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  under 
the  shadow  of  the  sanctuary,  and  looked  across  only  fur- 


l'^2  THE   KESrULCTiUX    Ol'   CiOTUAM. 

lively,  tlieii  let  their  eyes  full  in  silence  und  in  shiinie  to 
the  stones. 

Shouts  of  derisive  laughter  were  heard  there  the  night 
long.  This  woman  sat  at  the  head  of  her  table,  while  she 
was  at  the  same  time  serving  a  term  in  the  State  Prison, 

She  was  seen  driving  daily  in  the  park.  She  was  at 
the  same  hour  serving  out  her  term  in  the  State  Prison. 
She  was  so  desperate,  so  wicked,  that  even  some  of  her 
most  desperate  and  most  wicked  friends,  in  their  appre- 
hension of  what  was  to  follow,  began  to  droyj  away  from 
her,  to  dread  her.  She  sought  to  hold  them  fast  at  her 
side  by  renewed  and  more  vigorous  devotion  to  their  in- 
terests, wishes,  desires,  and  dissipations. 

And  so  when  it  was  reported  to  her  the  next  day  that 
the  beautiful  little  child  with  the  sad  and  silent  face  was 
no  more  to  be  seen  in  the  park,  she  set  her  wits  to  work 
with  all  the  skill  and  energy  and  precision  which  had 
first  distinguished  her. 

She  did  not  wait  to  consult  Matherson.  He,  she 
feared,  was  one  of  those  who  were  falling  away  from 
her,  who  had  outgrown  her,  wished  to  part  from  her  for- 
ever. 

****** 

As  Walton  had  foreseen,  the  two  girls  whom  he  had 
left  so  happy,  and  yet  so  miserable,  up  in  the  rickety  old 
housetop,  full  of  plans  for  the  future  and  hopes  of  honest 
toil  with  their  hands,  were  quite  unable  to  leave  the 
little  room  the  next  day.  lie  did  not  hasten  to  keep  his 
promise  of  coming  to  breakfast  at  all.  He  knew  they 
needed  rest  ;  food  and  rest  ;  rest  of  mind  and  of  body. 
He  was  content  to  keep  away  and  keep  on  with  his  work 
while  he  knew  they  had  both. 

It  was  almost  dark  the  next  day  as,  with  his  pockets 
full  of  all  kinds  of  little  cheap  luxuries,  he  turned  up 


**A   PLACiL'E-Sl'OT."  '  123 

the  alley  from  the  narrow  street  for  liis  lioiir  of  rest  and 
reereation. 

This  was  the  man's  reward.  A  good  man,  an  entirely 
unselfish  man,  was  he.  Yet,  where  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  could  this  lover  of  his  kind,  this  seeker  after  hits 
of  human  nature,  this  helper  of  the  weak,  have  found 
80  much  real  pleasure,  instruction,  rest,  for  so  little 
money  as  here  ? 

lie  was  so  alone  and  so  in  need  of  companionship  of 
an  honest  and  natural  kind.  The  brown-stone  steps  in 
Fifth  Avenue,  as  a  rule,  were  too  steep  for  him  to  climb, 
he  had  once  said  to  Dottie  ;  but  she  did  not  quite  under- 
stand.    Yet  here  he  was  climbing  straight  into  the  air. 

As  he  had  turned  up  the  alley,  he  felt  that  he  was  fol- 
lowed. When  he  reached  the  worn  and  dirty  door-sill 
he  stopped,  turned,  and  looked  back, 

A  stout,  well-clad  man  in  a  short  coat,  with  his  right 
hand  in  his  pocket,  stopped  at  the  entrance  of  the  alley, 
and  turned  sharp  about  also. 

Walton  took  a  hurried  glance  up  and  down  the  alley, 
placed  a  hand  on  his  right  hip,  stood  there  a  moment, 
taking  a  S(|uare  look  at  the  s(|uare  back  at  the  mouth  of 
the  dark  alley,  and  then  suddenly,  with  a  sigh  and  sign 
of  displeasure,  turned  and  slowly  climbed  the  steep  and 
innumerable  steps. 

lie  had  promised  the  poor,  tired  girl  at  the  top  that 
she  should  not  be  disturbed  l)y  that  old  monster  any 
more. 

lie  knew  now  very  well  where  the  man  with  the  square 
back  who  had  been  following  him  had  come  from  ;  and, 
tired  as  he  w;is,  alone,  unarmed,  he  felt  like  turning  back 
and  nnu'dering  him. 

With  well-atfected  merriment,  however,  he  entered 
the  dark  little  rooJii  at  the  top,  lifted  his  hat,  and  made 


124  TUE    DE.STltUCTIO.V    Of    GOTHAM. 

great  show  of  regrets  and  excuses  for  not  keeping  his  en- 
gagement to  breakfast. 

It  was  his  coachman's  fault.  Yes  ;  liis  tardy  coachman 
liad  been  delayed  by  tearing  the  cockade  off  his  own  hat 
Avith  his  great  whip,  which  he  had  caught  in  the  great 
cockade,  and  that  was  why  lie  had  missed  the  train,  and 
so  did  not  get  to  breakfast  till  after  supper-time. 

And  as  he  bowed  and  smiled,  and  emptied  his  pockets, 
and  popped  another  bottle  of  ice-cold  soda  water,  the 
pale,  thin  girl  and  the  black-eyed  and  silent  beauty  at 
her  side  laughed  merrily. 

Their  laughter  was  more  to  him,  more  musical  and  pre- 
cious, than  had  been  the  clink  and  rattle  and  gleam  of  thou- 
sands in  gold  counted  down  in  compensation  for  his  care. 

Even  the  little  child  laughed  as  they  ate  and  drank 
together,  the  first  time  it  had  laughed  or  hardly  opened 
its  pouting  and  pretty  little  lips  since  the  terrified  mother 
had  so  savagely  silenced  her  the  night  before. 

But,  somehow,  things  would  not  continue  running  on 
smoothly.  Twice  the  man  had  fancied  he  heard  foot- 
steps on  the  creaking  stairs  at  the  door.  Twice  the  two 
girls  bantered  him  on  his  sudden  silence  and  preoccupa- 
tion.    And  then  at  length  they  too  began  to  be  still. 

The  dark  one  began  to  cough.  She  turned  away  her 
head,  took  an  old  stained  handkerchief  from  her  pocket, 
and  finally  got  up  from  her  seat  on  the  box  by  the  table, 
and  went  away  into  a  corner  and  coughed  with  her  face 
to  the  wall.  When  she  came  back  she  was  very  pale, 
but  tried  hard  to  smile.  The  terrible  strain  she  had 
passed  through  had  been  too  much  for  her. 

Walton  glanced  at  a  corner  of  the  handkerchief  which 
she  held  tight  in  her  hand.  It  was  stained  with  blood. 
She  hastily  put  it  awiiy. 


"^.V    I'LAOrK-SI'OT."  125 

Neither  spoke. 

The  silence  that  fell  upon  tlic  little  fj;ronp  after  that, 
and  lay  like  a  pall,  was  long  and  painful.  The  child  had 
crept  lip  on  tlie  mother's  knee,  and,  laying  its  little  head 
against  the  girl's  breast,  was  now  fast  asleep. 

The  great,  wondering  eyes  looked  down  on  the  sleep- 
ing child  with  sad  but  silent  pity  and  concern, 

"Walton  had  never  been  so  troubled  in  his  life.  The 
man  at  the  mouth  of  the  alley  stood  before  him  all  the 
time.  lie  must  carry  the  war  into  Africa.  The  IJastile 
mnst  fall  and  at  once. 

The  city,  the  people,  were  ready  for  the  attack.  lie 
knew  he  could  not  leave  tins  girl's  side  now  for  an  hour 
in  safety  to  her  and  hers. 

Any  great  excitement  or  strain  would  kill  her  now. 
He  thought  of  his  little  group  of  friends  np  in  the  garret, 
where  the  gas  shot  out  like  a  lance  at  right  angles  in  their 
faces,  as  the  only  immediate  help  he  could  possibly  com- 
mand. Two  or  three  of  these  members  of  the  press  lie 
knew  were  now,  along  with  some  of  the  citizens,  laying 
siege  to  the  shameless  mansion  and  its  inmates  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  determined  that  the  monster  there  should  leave 
it,  and  in  irons,  to  be  taken  to  the  prison  where  she  be- 
longed. 

Oh,  for  a  little  money  now,  ever  so  little,  to  help  this 
poor,  broken,  dyin^  girl  !  In  the  absence  of  money, 
which  would  pave  her  way  to  some  retreat  of  rest  and 
peace,  she  must  be  protected  where  she  was. 

"  You  must  go  to  bed  and  sleep,"  he  said.  The  man 
wrote  a  note,  rose  up  hurriedly,  went  down,  out  into  the 
dark  alley,  and  down  to  the  street. 

The  man  with  the  broad  back  turned  about  just  across 
the  narrow  street,  and  again  showed  his  back,  while  he 
held  his  right  hand  still  in  his  pocket.     Walton  went  on 


12G  THE    DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

for  a  block  down  the  narrow  street,  entered  a  telegraph 
office  suddenly,  dispatched  his  message,  and  came  out. 
As  he  did  so  he  met  the  broad -backed  man  almost  face 
to  face. 

lie  did  not  seem  to  notice  this  heavy-shouldered  man, 
but  sauntered  leisurely  back  toward  the  mouth  of  the 
dark  alley. 

All  was  as  still  as  if  it  had  been  the  mouth  of  a  cavern. 
It  was  past  midnight  now,  and  all  who  dwelt  or  toiled 
here  were  fast  asleep — asleep  or  invisible,  and  still  as 
ghosts  in  their  dark  and  doubtful  ways. 

Walton  had  stood  but  a  few  moments  there  in  the 
mouth  of  the  cave  when  the  heavy  shoulders  came  in  full 
view  before  him. 

The  reporter  did  not  move  a  step,  but,  standing  there 
close  to  the  wall,  he  drew  forth  a  cigar,  struck  a  match, 
and  began  to  smoke  leisurely  in  the  presence  of  the  mas- 
sive shoulders.  The  shoulders  were  more  disgusted  than 
ever,  and  with  a  great  heave  the  heavy  shoulders  stepped 
back  and  across  the  narrow  street  to  watch  and  wait  the 
end  of  that  cigar. 

The  clock  had  already  struck  one.  When  it  struck 
two  the  cigar  was  finished.  Walton  threw  the  stump 
against  the  wall  across  the  alley,  and  it  sparkled  and 
danced  over  the  cobble-stones  like  a  firecracker. 

The  dark  and  heavy  shoulders  across  the  narrow  street 
from  the  mouth  of  the  cavern  seemed  to  take  in  a  long 
breath  of  relief. 

Now  w4iat  would  be  done  ?  Surely  the  man  will  move 
on,  thought  the  shoulders,  and  I,  as  a  faithful  shadow, 
do  my  w^ork,  and  then  shall  escape  death  from  suffocation 
in  this  vile  air.  What  will  he  do  now  ?  Which  way 
will  he  go  ? 

In  that  darkest  hour  which  always  precedes  dawn  the 


"a  plague-spot."  127 

shoulders  again  saw  the  flasli  of  a  mateli  near  tlic  month 
of  the  alley.  And  then,  to  his  infinite  disgnst,  he  saw 
the  man  quietly  light  and  proceed  to  smoke  another  cigar  ; 
this  he  smoked  most  leisurely. 

Dawn  came  in  at  the  end  of  this  cigar,  and  the  shadow 
that  had  stood  there  the  whole  night  long  fled  from  be- 
fore the  face  of  the  sun. 

This  next  morning,  with  public  opinion  ringing  behind 
it,  compelling  it  forward,  forcing  the  action  and  expres- 
sion of  the  law,  a  knot  tightened  about  that  mansion  on 
Fifth  Avenue. 

Nearly  a  dozen  members  of  the  press  quietly  led  the 
attack — good  men,  thinkers,  toilers.  These  guided  the 
force  that  laid  siege  to  and  entered  the  infamous  mansion 
at  sunrise  next  morning. 

Entrance  had  been  effected  by  strategy  and  ruse  not 
necessary  to  detail  here. 

The  great  banquet  hall  was  reached,  the  gorgeous  par- 
lor, glittering  in  all  its  splendid  array,  and  signs  of 
revelry  barely  ended  were  universal.  And  here  a  note 
was  politely  pencilled  and  sent  to  the  mistress  of  the 
place,  demanding  her  presence. 

A  savage  answer  came  back,  couched  in  insult  and 
defiance.  The  heart  of  the  place  must  be  taken  by 
storm. 

Every  passage  and  possible  avenue  of  escape  was 
guarded.  Men  sprang  up  the  great,  wide  stairways, 
softer  than  mosses  in  velvet  and  silken  rugs.  They  came 
to  the  closed  door  of  her  apartments.  Surely  the  woman 
was  mad.     "What  did  she  mean  to  do  ? 

The  besiegers  thundered  at  the  door,  and  demanded 
immediate  admittance.  A  woman's  voice  answered,  and 
implored  a  little  time  and  patience.  It  was  the  voice  of 
her  maid. 


128  THE    DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

"  Miidiime,"  slio  said,  "  is  at  lier  bath  ;  wait  !" 

"  Open  the  door  I" 

"  Monsieur,  madaiiie  is  at  her  bath,  monsieur." 

"  Open  tliis  door,  or  we  will  force  it  open  !" 

"  Surely,  monsieur  will  not  disturb  a  lady  at  her 
bath!" 

"  Open  this  door  !" 

"  Messieurs  !  messieurs  !" 

A  battering-ram  was  improvised  from  a  long  marble 
mantle  found  in  one  of  the  rooms,  and  the  heavy 
mahogany  door,  with  its  costly  carvings,  was  burst  open. 
The  storming  party,  wild  with  excitement,  burst  into  the 
room. 

Two  Frenchwomen  stood  with  hair  dishevelled  ;  their 
hands  were  clasped  in  terror.  They  were  weeping 
wildly.     They   seemed    dumb   with  grief  and   dismay. 

They  were  mute,  it  seemed,  not  from  fear  from  with- 
out, but  grief  and  agony  from  within.  They  hastily  led 
back  to  the  luxurious  bath-room. 

"  There,  messieurs,  there  !  See  what  you  have  done  ! 
Madame  has  kill  herself  !  Ah,  7no7i  dieu  !  madame  has 
kill  herself  !" 

There  lay  before  them  a  w'oman,  the  body  almost 
hidden  in  the  full  marble  bath-tub,  which  seemed  almost 
overflowing  with  blood.  The  right  arm  hung  out  over 
the  side  of  the  marble  bath  ;  the  head  was  thrown  back, 
the  face  averted,  the  features  hidden  by  the  streaming 
hair. 

The  men  uncovered  their  heads  and  fell  back,  the 
women  with  mute  pleadings  urging  them  away. 

And  surely  no  one  wished  to  stay  to  look  twice  on  the 
awful  scene.     It  seemed  that  justice  had  been  satisfied. 

The  members  of  the  press  in  that  one  hurried  glance 
at  the  awful  scene  had  had  quite  enough.     It  was  photo- 


"a  plague-spot."  12d 

graphed  on  every  licart  indelibly  and  forever.  True,  no 
one  saw  the  face.     But  all  had  seen  enough. 

Death  demands  respect,  and  has  it  always. 

Walton  and  his  friends  felt  that  a  great  and  good  work 
liad  at  last  been  done. 

The  press — a  few  meanly-paid  members  of  the  press — 
it  seemed,  had  undertaken  and  completed  a  task  that  all 
the  law  and  religion  of  the  city,  in  their  terror  and  dis- 
may, had  scarcely  dared  mention  above  a  whisper. 

These  men  went  their  ways,  chronicled  the  achieve- 
ment with  scarce  a  mention  of  themselves,  but  in  their 
hearts  thanked  Heaven  that  this  one  terrible  plague-spot 
had  been  effaced. 

Brief  mention  v/as  made  of  a  burial  at  Tarrytown  ; 
the  half  million  of  property  was  passed  over  to  the  ad- 
ministrator of  the  estate  of  shame  ;  and  that  seemed  to 
be  the  end. 

Yet  a  few  weeks  later  it  was  whispered  that  Madame 

• was  living  in  great  luxury  and  splendor  in  Paris. 

The  body  of  one  of  her  dead  victims  had  been  substi- 
tuted in  the  bath  for  her  own. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


CLINGING   TO   THE    WRECKS. 


It  is  a  stormy  sea,  this  city.  In  the  heart  of  it,  where 
the  streets  are  narrow,  dirty,  full  of  disease  ;  where  the 
working  people  live  like  rats  in  the  old  honscs,  that  their 
rich  owners  may  grow  more  rich  over  their  misery,  you 
may  hear  a  continual  moan  like  the  moaning  of  the  sea 
about  a  bleak  and  rocky  coast. 

High  up  in  the  crazy  old  housetops  hundreds,  thou- 
sands hide  away,  climb  up,  and  cling  to  life  as  ship- 
wrecked seamen  cling  to  the  masts  of  ships. 

The  people  here  are  wrecked  seamen.  Some  of  them 
have  seen  tranquil  seas — life,  heart,  happiness.  Here 
they  are  wrecked  entirely,  hoijclessly  lost.  They  will 
cling  to  the  rigging,  to  the  wreck,  to  anything  they  can 
lay  hold  of  and  hold  on  to  for  a  season. 

But  they  know — all  know,  that  in  time  they  must  let 
go,  give  up  all  hold,  fall  down  into  the  dark  sea  of  sin 
and  sorrow  that  rolls  and  roars  below  ;  and  there,  after 
drifting  about  a  little  time,  sink  down  into  the  depths  of 
the  dreadful  sea  of  sorrow  and  of  sin,  and  soul  and  body 
go  down,  down,  never  to  be  even  cast  up  again  on  the 
white  sands  of  any  shore  this  side  eternity. 

Dottie  and  her  thin,  pale  companion  were,  as  we  have 
seen,  in  one  of  these  tottering  housetops,  clinging, 
clutching,  holding  on  with  all  the  force  that  was  in  them. 

Dottie  had  been  borne  down  the  stream,  trying  to  get 
a  footing  here  and  there  ;  but  at  last,  in  spite  of  all,  she 


CLINGING   TO   TUE   WRECKS.  131 

was  Ijorne  quite  away  and  on  and  down  by  tlie  force  of 
the  stream  to  the  great  sea.  The  little  hands  were  not 
strong.  And  so  at  last  we  find  her  here,  where  thousands 
and  thonsands  of  others  had  been  borne,  just  like  her- 
self, weak  and  helpless. 

It  is  not  always  the  best  at  heart  who  can  hold  on  best. 

But  she  did  not  complain  here  in  the  housetop.  The 
constant  smell  of  the  musty  and  dusty  tobacco  made  her 
ill,  with  a  dull,  heavy,  and  sea-sick  illness.  Only  this 
illness  here  did  not  come  to  an  end  as  illness  of  the  sea 
ends. 

She  missed  the  park,  the  fine  air,  the  cheery  voices  of 
the  little  Saxon,  flaxen-haired  children,  the  pretty  sweet- 
ness, cleanness  of  her  little  geranium  room  looking  out 
over  the  strong,  young  trees. 

She  missed  the  merry  company  of  the  chorus  girls  at 
the  theatre,  the  long  and  pleasant  walk  to  and  from  her 
work  there. 

Once  she  stopped  rolling  the  reeking  tobacco,  as  she 
leaned  over  and  half  doubled  at  her  work  by  the  window 
at  the  housetop,  and,  staggering  up  slowly,  wondered  if 
she  was  strong  enough  to  walk  all  the  way  to  the  park 
with  Dollie.  She  feared  she  could  not  walk  all  the 
way.  Tet  she  was  sorely  tempted  to  throw  down  her 
work,  take  up  the  pale  little  Dolhe,  who  was  trying  to 
build  a  Brooklyn  Bridge  in  the  corner  out  of  tobacco- 
stems,  and  make  the  effort.  It  ended  with  a  sigh,  this 
first,  new,  desperate  resolution,  and  again  she  leaned 
over  the  recking  tobacco,  and  went  on  patiently  with 
her  work,  till  God's  curtain  of  darkness  came  softly 
down  over  tlie  window  and  told  her  that  the  weary  day's 
work  was  done. 

She  was  alone  now. 

Her  companion  i     Twice  or  thrice  maybe  the  brother — 


132  THE   DESTRUCTIOK   0^  GOtHAM. 

the  "lock-out"  brother  of  the  pale,  thin  girl — had 
bravely  climbed  up  out  of  the  surging  sea  that  rolled  and 
beat  below,  and  tried  hard  to  cling  and  hold  fast  high  up 
there  where  his  sister  was. 

But  it  was  no  use.  He  fell  down  finally,  and  for  the 
last  time,  into  the  sea  below. 

And  what  was  saddest  of  all,  drew  his  pale,  thin,  and 
silent  sister  down  with  him,  as  she  tried,  with  love  and 
true  devotion,  to  hold  him  by  the  hand. 

And  down  there  somewhere,  down  in  the  dark  caves 
of  this  sea  and  through  tlie  surging  caverns  in  the  slime 
and  ooze,  and  along  with  the  kelp  and  seaweed,  spars  and 
bars,  and  along  with  the  reeking  corpses  of  many  cast- 
aways, the  pale,  thin  girl  disappeared,  and  never  came 
to  the  surface  any  more. 

There  is  a  low,  black,  and  noiseless  httle  steamer  to  be 
seen  stealing  up  the  East  River  at  a  certain  hour  each 
day.  Its  deck  is  packed  with  cheap  and  dimly  stained 
coffins.  The  boat  hugs  the  shore  under  the  banks  as  if 
ashamed  of  being  seen. 

Its  deck  is  loaded  down  with  a  freight  of  these  pitiful 
dead  who  have  been  wrecked,  cast  away  in  this  dolorous 
sea,  with  no  one  to  claim  them  or  close  their  eyes  and 
lay  them  away  to  rest. 

It  was  a  sad  story,  and  one  might  well  wish  it  were 
not  true — the  life,  the  death,  the  final  burial  of  this 
brother,  whose  outstretched  hand  the  sister  had  clutched 
till  she  too  was  drawn  down,  down  into  the  sea  and 
drowned.  And  the  pitiful  part  of  it  is  they  both  perished 
the  same  sultry,  reeking  night. 

It  is  one  of  God's  arrangements  of  mercy  that  people 
cannot  long  endure  the  pain  and  sin  of  these  caverns  in 
this  sea. 

Oh^  for  the  roomy,  cool  corn-fields  of  the  Far  West  j 


CLINGING  TO  THE   WRECKS,  133 

one  breath  of  air  from  tliem  for  these  reeking,  sultry 
niglits  of  summer  clown  here  ! 

On  tlie  deck  of  this  black  and  silent  little  l)oat  that 
stole  in  a  tired,  weary  way  up  the  river  to  the  Pauper's 
Island  of  Rest  one  sultry  twilight,  lay  brother  and  sister 
side  by  side. 

It  was  only  an  accident,  a  chance  that  it  was  so.  No 
one  knew,  no  one  cared,  that  these  two  castaways  that 
had  clung  together  and  died  together  were  brother  and 
sister,  who  had  loved  each  other,  who  had  left  the  sweet 
woods  of  the  Alleghanies  only  a  year  or  two  before  and 
come  to  the  city  to  make  their  fortunes  ! 

And  now  they  were  going  away  together,  borne  across 
the  dark  river  together,  Charon  rowing  silently  over  the 
River  Styx,  brother  and  sister,  side  by  side,  along  with 
a  hundred  other  pauper  dead,  in  their  dim,  cheap,  count- 
less coffins. 

And  no  one  knew  or  cared  about  them  or  their  sad  his- 
tory, save  a  reporter  who  had  watched  them  hopelessly. 

And  God — let  us  hope  and  pray  that  God,  too,  knew. 

The  pale,  thin  girl  had  not  disappeared  suddenly  and 
all  at  once  from  the  dingy  little  room  in  the  high  and 
rickety  old  housetop  ;  she  went  away  at  intervals,  each 
time  lengthening  the  time  of  absence,  till  at  last  it  had  no 
end. 

The  first  time  "Walton  called  and  she  was  not  in.  Dot- 
tie  met  him  at  the  door. 

An  inborn,  not  inl)red,  instinct  made  her  always  a 
lady,  miserable  as  she  mms.  Very  respectfully,  very 
kindly,  tenderly  even,  she  received  him.  lie  was  by 
nature  a  gentleman,  as  she  was  a  lady. 

His  foot  stayed  at  the  threshold  of  that  old  door,  with 
neitlier  lock  nor  key,  and  no  power  under  the  sun  could 
have  forced  him  to  cross  it,  as  he  stood  there,  hat  iu 


134  THE    DESTRUCTION    OF    GOTHAM. 

liand,  before  tliis  girl,  even  if  she  liad  not  risen  np  and 
stood  in  tlie  duor  before  hiiu. 

And  now,  when  only  two  liands  toiled  there  by  the 
M'indow,  sorting  out  the  ugly  leaves,  cutting,  rolling, 
twisting,  bending  for  twelve  hours  a  day,  with  her  sweet 
face  down  to  the  poisonous  stuff  that  is  used  to  destroy 
vermin  with  ;  this  stuff  that  even  rats  and  reptiles  will 
not  rest  in — oh,  it  was  pitiful !  At  such  times  it  was  the 
little  child  who  met  him  at  the  door,  the  girl  keeping 
on,  with  lier  face  bent  to  her  toil,  looking  up  only  now 
and  then,  for  pride  and  honor  were  truly  in  her  heart. 

She  must  not  receive  so  much  as  one  crust  from  this 
man,  from  any  one,  that  she  did  not  repay. 

She  never  had  received  charity,  and  she  never  would. 

She  now  had  to  pay  all  the  rent  herself,  since  her  toil- 
ing companion  had  been  drowned  in  the  sea  below  ;  and 
she  must  work  incessantly. 

The  miserable  wretch  who  gathered  the  rent  for  these 
miserable  dens  had  observed  that  the  girl  never  ventured 
out.  He  shrewdly  guessed  that  she  did  not  dare  go  out, 
for  some  good  reason  or  another.  He  saw  that  she  was 
half-way  comfortable,  and  would  like  to  remain  ;  in  fact, 
would  hardly  dare  to  move. 

He  doubled  her  rent. 

The  tobacco  was  brought  by  a  man  who  was  now  sent 
around  to  the  tenement-houses  by  the  great  factory  to 
deliver  and  bring  away  the  work. 

The  girl  never  went  out  of  that  house.  Up  and  down 
the  creaky  stairs  twice  a  day  for  a  can  of  water — that 
was  all  she  spared  from  bending  over  the  tobacco. 

Where  would  it  all  end  ? 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Walton  had  a  friend  in  the  nn'nes  who  wrote  glowing 
accounts  and  pictured  possible  fortunes  of  vast  propor- 


CLINGING    TO   THE    WRECKS.  135 

tions  ;  hut  liis  letters  invarial)ly  closed  by  asking  for  a 
few  dollars  till  they  could  strike  it  in  the  great  mine. 
And  so  he  was  kept  the  poorest  of  the  poor. 

The  fight  was  hard.  The  weather  was  hot,  sultry. 
He  was  himself  not  strong.  The  daily  task  of  climbing 
up  the  stairs  to  the  little  tobacco  room  in  the  rickety  old 
house  was  a  hard  one  now.  Where,  indeed,  would  all 
this  end  ? 

About  this  time  it  transpired  that  a  great  ball,  the 
greatest  of  the  great  balls  of  the  great  city,  was  to  be 
given  by  the  great  millionaire  who  had  been  pounding 
away  with  his  great  closed  fists  at  the  doors  of  society. 

They  had  refused  to  open,  these  doors  of  society.  He 
would  try  his  sledge-hammer  of  gold. 

He  sent  for  "Walton,  and  demanded  to  know  of  all  the 
great  balls  of  old  which  was  the  greatest  ?  which  had 
cost  the  most  money  ? 

Walton  told  him  of  one  that  had  taken  place  in  ancient 
Rome,  which  cost  more  than  a  hundred  thousand  dollars. 
The  great  railroad  king  sighed.  He  thought  for  a 
moment,  closed  his  tight  hands  tighter,  but  at  last  gasped  : 
"  1  will  go  that  twenty-five  thousand  better." 
Then,  after  a  moment,  he  turned  in  his  great  gold 
and  leather  throne,  in  his  great  gold  and  silver  palace, 
and  sju'd  to  Walton  :  "  Write  it  up  !  Yes,  write  it  up 
now,  and  I  will  make  the  ball  what  you  write.  They 
nnist  all  come,  too.  You  must  jmt  in  all  the  wealthy 
women  in  all  their  clothes.  You  can  do  this  now — the 
first  thing.  Get  it  all  ready.  They  will  tell  you  what 
they  are  going  to  wear,  maybe,  beforehand,  so  you  can 
get  it  all  ready.  And  now  see  that  you  make  no  mis- 
takes ;  people  hate  re])orters  who  make  mistakes  about 
dresses.  Begin  with  Ilattie  Lane.  Yes,  she  will  be 
here.     Mathei*sou  will  be  here.     A  risinir  and  a  rich  man 


13G  THE    DESTRUCTION    OF    GOTHAM. 

is  my  friend  Matlierson  ;  but  Ilattie  Lane  is  poor — dog 
poor." 

"Walton  bit  liis  lip,  but  calmly  began,  cahnly  went  on 
with  his  work  as  the  great  millionaire  smiled  his  vast 
smile. 

Then  the  great,  big  man  with  the  big,  fat  hands 
again  talked  on  from  his  gold  and  leather  throne  :  "  Oh, 
yes,  he  had  known  Ilattie's  father  well.  They  had  been 
great  friends.  But  the  old  colonel  had  never  kept  his 
hands  closed.  And  now  he  was  poor,  and  no  doubt  he 
expected  him,  after  the  custom  in  Europe,  to  endow  his 
daughter.     Would  he  ?" 

At  the  very  thought  it  seemed  the  great  man's  hands 
both  clutched  more  tightly  to  the  arms  of  the  throne,  as 
if  he  once  more  feared  they  might  let  go  their  hold  of 
one  single  dollar  of  all  his  scores  of  millions. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

IN    A    NERVOUS    STATE. 

"  What  is  physical  exhaustion  and  nervous  debility, 
my  dear  boy  ?"  asked  a  young  man  of  New  York,  one 
morning,  after  he  had  read  the  paper,  of  his  companion 
in  Wall  Street,  as  he  was  holding  on  to  the  tape  of  the 
ticker.  lie  was  referring  to  Mr.  Stone.  The  man  at 
the  ticker  did  not  turn  around  or  stop  for  a  second.  He 
looked  hard  down  the  throat  of  the  ticker,  and  then 
chewing  at  the  stub  of  his  cigar,  and  rolling  it  about  in 
his  mouth,  said  sharply  :  "  Nervous  debility  is— is— ner- 
vous debility." 

Some  said  it  was  physical  exhaustion  that  had  thrown 
Stone  in  such  a  shocking  state  of  "  nervous  debility." 

lie  told  his  doctor  it  was  persistent  devotion  to  busi- 
ness that  had  so  affected  his  mental  vigor  and  unexam- 
pled tranquillity  under  the  most  exciting  battles  of  Wall 
Street,  and  so  needed  rest— quiet.  Ihit  some  vicious  and 
envious  men,  who  had  not  had  much  but  disaster  in  Wall 
Street,  hinted  that  he  only  made  this  an  excuse  for  giv- 
ing up  the  costly  brandies  which  he  could  no  longer 
afford  to  indulge  in. 

Others,  again,  laid  the  whole  load  of  the  great  specu- 
lator's health,  mental  and  physical  and  financial,  right 
down  at  the  door  of  a  mysterious  stranger  with  a  car-load 
of  gold  from  the  West.  And  they  refused  to  abandon 
fliat  position  for  a  moment. 

But  whatever  was  the  cause,  certainly  the  effect  was 


138  THE   DESTRUCTIOX   OF   GOTHAM. 

terrible.  The  once  serene  and  ever  tranquil  man,  who 
had  held  his  finger  on  the  pulse  of  the  whole  financial 
world  at  one  time  with  a  calmness  tliat  amazed  all  men, 
was  now  but  a  bundle  of  nerves. 

And  suffering  !  His  torments  would  have  begged  pity 
from  any  enemy  he  ever  had  ;  mercy  at  least  from  every 
man  on  earth,  from  all  human  kind. 

With  loss  upon  loss,  and  a  continual  succession  of 
losses,  as  if  some  invisil)le  fiend  pursued  him,  reached 
out  to  tliwart  him  in  everything,  the  ])oor  speculator's 
hand  treml^led  so  that  he  could  scarcely  sign  his  name  to 
his  check. 

Men  had  said  that  this  wonderful  dark  and  silent  little 
man  could  endure  everything — could  sit  still  and  see  his 
millions  melt  away,  and  not  complain  or  cry  out  once. 

They  did  not  know  this  dark  and  silent  little  man.  It 
was  other  men's  millions  he  had  seen  melt  away  with 
such  composure,  not  his  own.  When  it  came  to  his 
own  it  was  quite  another  matter. 

This  wonderful  little  man,  who  had  been  so  brave  all 
the  time  under  the  losses  of  others,  was  really  at  heart 
the  biggest  coward  in  all  the  world. 

There  is  a  complaint,  a  blackness  of  the  heart,  which, 
if  permitted  to  remain  there,  to  corrode  and  renuiin 
there,  unwatered  or  washed  out  by  some  deeds  of  love 
and  mercy,  rots  and  weakens  all  the  cords  of  valor  ; 
and  there  is  no  coward  so  cowardly  as  the  man  with  this 
disease. 

This  man,  who  had  stolen  millions,  had  become  so 
audacious  that  he  even  arrested  those  who  dared  to  say 
he  had  not  the  power  or  capacity  to  keep  his  stolen 
j)roperty. 

But  the  arrest  and  imprisonment  of  those  who  had 
dared  to  say  that  he  was  insolvent  had  done  no  good. 


IN   A   NERVOUS   STATE.  139 

In  fact,  tliis,  tlie  iiiirlit  following  the  arrest  and  im- 
prisonment of  his  detractors,  was  the  first  night  he  had 
not  slept  at  all. 

True,  he  had  spent  many  nights  of  almost  entire  sleep- 
lessness ;  but  this  was  the  first  night  he  had  literally 
not  closed  his  eyes.  That  invisible  hand  seemed  to  be 
reaching  out  for  him  even  in  his  bedroom.  When  he 
sat  at  breakfast  the  next  morning  he  seemed  to  see  that 
fearful  and  ever-present,  ever-pursuing  hand  reaching 
out  to  take  the  bread  untasted  from  his  thin  and  trem- 
bling lips. 

Still  he  went  down  to  "Wall  Street  and  struggled  on. 
It  was  something  to  him  that  even  now  the  street  was  in 
sympathy  with  him.  The  truth  was,  all  felt  that  when 
Stone  fell  they,  too,  should  fall,  and  with  them  "Wall 
Street. 

"  While  Rome  and  the  Coliseum  stand,  stands  the 
world." 

And  if  Wall  Street  should  fall,  what  would  become 
of  all  the  wealth  these  gamblers  held  in  the  Stock 
Board  ?  Their  seats  alone  were  each  worth  $30, <)(<(» — 
yes,  $50,000  !  They  must  stand  by  Stone,  so  that  the 
street  should  stand  by  them. 

The  next  night,  however,  the  poor,  distressed  man  did 
not  even  undress.     He  sat  alone — so  alone  now  ! 

He  sat  alone  till  the  clock  struck  one  !  It  startled 
liim.  He  felt  that  if  he  did  not  sleep  by  two  he  could 
not  sleep  at  all  that  night. 

lie  felt,  too,  that  if  he  did  not  sleep  that  night  he 
would  never  sleep  again. 

The  dark,  dried-uj)  little  skeleton  clutched  both  hands 
to  the  arms  of  his  chair  and  arose  suddenly. 

He  threw  off  his  coat  and  turned  down  the  bed- 
clothes.    He  wiis  standing  by  the  bureau,  with  the  glass 


140  THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

before  him.      As  he  unloosened  his  necktie  he  glanced 
into  the  glass. 

He  saw  something  there  so  hideous,  so  hard,  so  black, 
so  bony,  so  ghostly,  and  altogether  grinning  and  hichious, 
that  he  turned  back  with  an  exclamation  of  horror,  and 
fell  again  into  his  seat. 

He  had  seen  his  own  face. 

Two  !    three  !  !    four  !  !  !    dawn  !  !  !  ! 

The  man  moaned  and  arose,  and  tried  to  fasten  out 
the  daylight,  the  face  of  God,  as  one  would  fasten  out  a 
burglar  ! 

It  was  no  use.  The  sun  only  laughed  at  him.  It 
stuck  a  long,  rosy  finger  in  through  a  crack  in  the  green 
blind,  and  lit  up  the  whole  room. 

The  man  threw  on  his  coat  and  went  forth  from  his 
room  and  hastened  to  the  street.  A  watchman— his  own 
watchman  there — was  about  to  lay  hand  on  him. 

He  looked  so  hard,  so  desperate,  that  he  thought  him 
a  hall-thief. 

The  watchman  had  no  suspicion  what  a  colossal  thief 
he  had  clutched  hold  of  till  he  took  a  second  look  at  his 
face. 

As  he  turned  the  corner  and  desperately  beckoned  to 
a  car  the  conductor  hesitated  to  take  him  on.  He 
thought  him  drunk.  He  stood  close  up  to  the  track  and 
climbed  into  the  next  car  going  in  the  direction  of  the 
Park. 

The  conductor  literally  lifted  him  from  the  ground, 
and  tenderly  helping  him  to  a  seat,  placed  his  hat  on  his 
head  and  asked  him  if  there  was  anything  he  could  do 
for  him. 

There  was  no  one  else  in  the  car,  and  so  the  indulgent 
conductor,  not  for  a  moment  dreaming  that  he  sliould 
ever  in  his  life  have  tlie  distinguished  honor  of  setting 


IN  A   NERVOUS  STATE.  141 

eyes  on  tlie  great  Stone,  did  not  even  ask  him  for  liis 
fare. 

And  so,  for  sweet  Charity's  sake,  he  had  his  ride  to 
tlie  edge  of  the  cool,  sweet-smelling  Park  all  for  nothing. 

The  worn  and  weary  man  hastened  across  the  street, 
entered  the  gate,  and  soon  was  hidden  in  the  deep  and 
delicious  woods. 

He  was  refreshed.  Kiture  does  not  even  ask  your 
name  when  you  come  to  her  for  healing,  for  rest  or  help 
of  any  kind. 
^  The  invalid  felt  so  much  reheved  by  the  cool,  pure 
air  here,  the  peace,  the  absence  of  all  possible  sugges- 
tions of  Wall  Street,  that  he  kept  on,  on,  on. 

By  and  by  he  came  to  the  edge  of  the  cool,  large  lake. 
It  seemed  so  tranquil,  so  smiling,  restful,  happy.  He 
walked  down  to  the  very  edge.  He  even  smiled  here  in 
grateful  thanks  for  the  peace  he  found  ;  and  as  he  smiled 
he  leaned  over  and  looked  down  into  the  deep,  clear 
water. 

A  wild  cry  of  horror,  and  he  started  back  ! 

Was  it  his  horror  of  the  cool,  clear  water  ?  Had  he 
drank  and  drank  and  drank  in  secret  till  water  to  him 
was  horrible  to  see  ?  This  we  may  never  know.  Pos- 
sibly it  was  the  sight  of  his  face  that  frightened  him. 
Maybe  it  was  his  terror  of  water  and  the  horror  of  his 
hideous  face  together. 

For  he  had  again  seen  his  own  face  !  And  so  hideous 
this  time,  so  corpse-like  !  Was  that  grinning  face  there 
indeed  himself  ? 

Oh,  it  was  surely  pitiful  to  see  !  This  man  had  never 
loved  anything  or  any  one  but  himself. 

Could  he  now  love  himself  {  Was  that  frightened, 
wild,  wicked,  cowardly,  cringing,  Guiteau-facc  there 
before  him  a  face  to  love  i 


142  THE   DESTUUCTIOX  OF   GOTHAM. 

This  man,  who  had  phindured  liundreds,  had  robbed 
thousands — this  man,  who  had  driven  many  a  noble  man 
mercilessly  to  death,  Wiis  now  dying  even  more  terribly 
than  any  of  his  hundred  thousand  victims  ever  yet  had 
died. 

He  now  felt  that  something  more  terrible  than  that 
ever-present,  ever-haunting,  outstretching  hand  was  pur- 
suing him  ! 

What  was  it  ?     Death  ! 

lie  felt  that  death  was  close  at  his  heels,  and  he  turned 
and  fled  with  all  the  feeble  force  that  was  in  him.  But 
his  reason  was  still  steady  on  its  throne. 

It  was  a  part  of  God's  plan,  jierhaps,  that  he  should 
have  his  senses  about  him  to  the  last  ;  that  he  should 
suffer,  and  suffer,  and  suffer  to  the  last  gasp. 

He  clambered  into  a  hack — the  first  one  at  hand — and 
bade  the  man  drive  at  once  to  a  physician  famous  for 
skill  in  the  treatment  of  nervous  disorders  who  lived  on 
Fifty-fifth  Street. 

He  staggered  up  the  broad,  steep  steps,  and  entered 
the  spacious  hall. 

He  found  the  great  specialist  in  his  restful  and  classic 
consultation-room — for  it  was  no  longer  early  morning — 
and  sank  at  once  into  one  of  the  luxurious  leather  chairs 
before  him. 

The  doctor  sat  quietly  in  his  chair,  the  wide  and  book- 
laden  table  between  him  and  his  nervous  and  dying 
patient  with  the  black  and  ghttering  eyes. 

The  restful,  healthy,  tranquil,  and  good-hearted  phy- 
sician looked  straight  and  quietly  at  the  miserable,  suffer- 
ing little  creature  before  him,  but  did  not  speak. 

' '  Doctor,  I  have  money — plenty  of  money.  Yes, 
yes  ;  I — I  ^\dll  pay  you,  pay  you,  pay  you  well ;  for, 


IN   A   NERVOUS  STATE.  143 

you  see,  if  1  get  well  again  I  will  make  millions,  mill- 
ions, millions." 

How  liis  voice  trembled,  quivered,  broke  at  "  millions, 
millions,  millions,"  as  if  it  meant  the  world,  the  whole 
wide  world,  and  heaven  and  hell,  too  ! 

And  so  it  did — to  him. 

"  Doctor,  I  have  not  slept  for  two  nights — for  a 
month,  in  fact.  If  1  do  not  sleep  to-night,  1  w'ill  die — 1 
will  die — I  will  die." 

"Yes,  I  think  you  will,"  calmly  answered  the  doc- 
tor, still  looking  steadily  and  tranquilly  in  his  face. 

The  tranquillity,  the  peisistent  repose  of  the  great 
specialist,  gave  a  singular  sense  of  confidence  to  the  des- 
jjerate  little  being  before  him,  and  he  arose  and  came 
around  the  table  and  stood  up  close  before  him,  humbly 
as  a  beggar  might  stand. 

He  was  begging — begging  for  his  life  ;  for  more  than 
life — for  sleep,  for  forgetfulness. 

Never  before  had  this  suffering  man  been  heard  to 
speak  so  eloquently. 

He  had  been  called  the  sphinx  of  Wall  Street.  His 
ordei*s — all  his  great  commands,  his  dictations  which  had 
shaken  the  financial  centres  of  the  earth — had  been  made 
by  signs  and  single  words.     He  had  been  all  silence. 

Now  he  was  all  words. 

And  although  his  lips  were  dry  and  his  tongue  thick 
and  heavy,  he  seemed  afraid  to  be  silent.  He  seemed  to 
fear  to  stop  pleading,  speaking,  lest  he  should  never  be 
able  to  speak  again  this  side  the  sea  of  darkness. 

The  dry  lips  were  growing  still  more  dry.  The  thick, 
heavy  tongue  was  forgetting  its  office. 

The  black,  glittering  eyes  were  burning  brighter  and 
brighter  back  in  the  hollow  caverns  of  the  head.     The 


144  THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTSAlf. 

two  long  hands  were  opening  and  stretching  pitifully, 
helplessly. 

The  doctor  had  hardly  yet  spoken  a  word.  But  the 
man  went  on  in  his  M'ild  appeal,  his  prayer  for  help. 

Oh,  he  did  not  want  to  die  !  He  could  not  die.  He 
could  not  dare  to  think  of  death. 

Why  should  he,  who  had  so  much  money — so  much 
money — die  now  ?     He,  of  all  men  ? 

The  doctor  still  did  not  answer.  Could  he  hear  ? 
"Would  he  heed  I     Did  he  understand  ? 

How  he  was  suffering  !  He  was  being  literally  con- 
sumed— burned  alive,  soul  and  body — as  he  stood  there 
begging — begging  for  life,  with  burnt  lips  and  burning 
tongue. 


CnAPTER  XVI. 

THE   MAN   WITH    A   CLOSED   HAND. 

Stone  was  not  permitted  to  die  ;  but  he  was  per- 
mitted to  live,  to  suffer,  and  to  suffer  terribly. 

Night  and  day,  day  and  night,  he  endured  the  most 
exquisite  torture  man  can  suffer  and  surv^ive.  He  came 
to  be  merely  a  little  tawny  piece  of  walking  parchment, 
a  sort  of  dwarf  skeleton,  this  man  who  had  loved  only 
himself  and  his  money. 

Ay,  this  was  a  new  order  of  man — a  sort  of  new  and 
poisonous  fungus  that  had  grown  out  of  the  very  opulence 
of  this  land  and  time. 

The  disease  of  which  he  suffered,  his  nervous  fear, 
his  mental  fright,  suspicion,  his  perpetual  torture,  was 
new  to  science. 

The  learned  and  able  specialist  to  whom  he  appealed 
so  pitifully,  as  we  have  seen,  could  give  him  no  real 
remedy, 

Wliat  he  needed  was  a  new  heart,  or  rather  a  heart  of 
any  kind,  old  or  new.  This  clay  needed  moulding  over 
again.     Maybe  this  is  what  death  is  for. 

lie  had  seen  many  men  suffer  somewhat  as  he  now 
suffered,  only  in  a  far  less  degree,  and  their  very  miseries 
had  been  his  deh'ght. 

This  desire  to  see  others  suffer  had  grown  upon  him 
rapidly.  He  was  not  at  all  content  if  he  did  not  see 
some  one  writhing  in  anguish  under  the  tortures  he  in- 
flicted. 


146  THE    DESTUL'CTION    OF    GOTHAM. 

Now,  some  one,  some  unseen  and  mysterious  hand,  was 
administering  to  hiui  tlie  very  tortures  lie  liad  iiillicted 
on  his  best  friends. 

Tliis  new  Robespierre  also  had  a  life  to  lose. 

In  his  despair,  as  the  autunm  sped  by,  and  a  sense  of 
frost  in  the  air  made  his  thin  figure  shiver,  he  appealed 
in  person  to  another  great  sjDeculator,  the  richest  man  in 
America — in  the  world,  the  man  with  closed  hands. 

The  great  railroad  king  and  speculator,  with  his  hun- 
dred millions,  received  him  affably.  He  shook  hands 
with  him  cordially  for  a  second  ;  and  then,  as  if  suddenly 
remembering,  closed  his  hand  tightly. 

He  took  the  thin,  flaky  bit  of  brown  parchment 
knuckles  and  bones  in  his  great,  round,  red  hand  a  second 
time  and  squeezed  it  cordially.  Then  he  dropped  the 
dried-iip  knuckles  suddenly  again,  and  again  shut  up  his 
own  hand  tight  as  a  steel  trap,  as  if  he  feared  he  might, 
if  he  left  his  big  red  hand  open  for  a  single  moment 
longer,  let  go  of  something  he  would  not  like  to  lose. 

It  had  been  long  remarked  by  those  who  closely  ob- 
served the  mighty  millionaire  that  he  forever  held  his 
fists  tightly  closed. 

Whether  at  table,  at  cards,  driving  in  the  park — any- 
where and  at  all  times,  he  always  kept  his  big  red  hands 
clasped  and  tightly  closed. 

It  was  said  that  he  slept  with  them  closed.  It  was 
prophesied  that  when  the  last  long  sleep  came  he  would 
sleep  with  his  fists  closed  fast  ;  that  he  would  be  found 
with  his  fists  folded  tight  in  his  great  granite  tomb,  even 
to  the  day  of  judgment. 

The  tawny  and  shrivelled  little  sufferer  tried  to  smile 
and  talk  in  his  old,  easy  way.  He  alluded,  with  a  hollow 
laugh,  that  fatigued  even  himself,  to  the  tumble  and 
crash  and  crisis  in  Wall  Street. 


THE    MAX    WITH    A    CLOSED    HA^-D.  147 

The  great  man,  in  return,  called  his  attention  to  the 
costly  pictures  on  the  walls  of  his  impressive  mansion, 
M'hich  had  cost  millions  and  millions. 

The  pictures  were  admired  together.  The  great  mill- 
ionaire, with  his  fists  closed,  offered  the  weak  and  trem- 
bling little  skeleton  his  arm,  and  thej  walked  the  great 
drawing-rooms  together.  The  price  paid  for  some  of 
the  pictures  quite  took  away  the  little  man's  breath. 

lie  praised  them  with  all  the  generosity  his  vocabulary 
could  bestow.  This  pleased  the  other  greatly  ;  a  big 
point  gained. 

After  awhile  the  two  sat  down  together.  The  mighty 
millionaire  with  the  big  red  hands  sat  in  a  great  arm- 
chair of  leather  and  gold.  His  two  big  red  hands,  like 
monstrous  claws,  were  clasped  tightly  over  the  arms  on 
a  level  with  his  massive  elbows. 

Again  the  nervous  and  worn  and  "  cornered  "  little 
speculator  drifted  eagerly  into  stocks  ;  would  the  market 
take  a  favorable  turn — favorable  for  him  ? 

They  had  brandy  between  them  as  they  talked. 
lie  leaned  his  lean  and  bony  little  body  over  toward 
the  great  railroad  king  in  his  great  luxurious  chair  of 
leather  and  gold,  and  became  very  confidential. 

He  was  willing  to  trust  this  great  man,  he  more  than 
insinuated— nay,  more,  he  would  take  him  entirely  into 
his  confidence  and  confess  to  him  that  lie  had  been 
neither  fortunate  nor  judicious  of  late  ;  he  had  been  too 
generous— too  generous  in  his  transactions,  and  was  just 
now  a  bit  embarrassed,  being  a  little  "  squeezed"— ever 
60  little  embarrassed. 

Would  the  great  king  of  railroads  and  Wall  Street  tell 
him  in  one  word  what  to  do  to  have  less  care  and  more 
money  than  he  then  had  ? 

The  massive  man  in  the  luxurious  chair  of  leather  and 


148  THE   DESTRUCTION"   OF   GOTHAM. 

gold  leaned  forward  in  return.  Their  faces  were  nearly 
touching  each  other. 

The  little  man  began  to  feel  a  glow  of  hope  and  fervor 
not  felt  in  the  region  of  his  heart  for  months,  lie  took 
a  long  breath  of  relief.  He  felt  that  the  day  of  doubts, 
despair,  was  drawing  to  a  close. 

One,  two,  three,  four  glasses  of  brandy  ! 

He  clasped  his  two  hands  together  as  he  leaned  for- 
ward, and  quietly  shook  hands  with  himself. 

The  great  man  in  the  chair  of  leather  and  gold  smiled 
massively.     Then  he  smiled  tranquilly,  mildly. 

That  smile  of  his  was  as  wide  as  the  little  man's  whole 
face. 

More  brandy. 

Then  he  held  on  still  more  tightly  to  the  arms  of  his 
gold  and  leather  throne,  and  drawing  back  his  face  and 
relaxing,  not  his  hands — no,  no,  not  his  tremendous 
hands — but  his  wide  and  benevolent  smile,  and,  half 
closing  his  eyes,  still  keeping  his  big,  fat,  red  hands  fast 
and  tight  about  the  arms  of  his  chair,  he  began  to  talk 
and  tell  of  his  wonderfully  fast  horses. 

The  little  man's  pulse  stood  still.  If  he  had  not  been 
as  brown  as  a  parchment  he  would  have  been  as  white  as 
the  margin  of  this  sheet. 

His  two  hands  divided  company.  They  fell  apart  and 
rolled  out  of  his  lap  and  fell  down  at  his  side,  and  hung 
there  like  two  felons  that  had  expiated  a  crime. 

You  could  almost  have  heard  the  bones  of  those  two 
hands  rattle  together  as  they  rolled  off  and  hung  and 
swung  there  at  the  little  brown  man's  side,  in  the  gor- 
geous mansion  of  the  modern  Croesus. 

Wearily  he  listened  to  all  the  idle  and  extravagant  talk 
of  horses,  parks,  drives. 

Wearily  he  heard  the  great  man  say  that  he  was  going 


THE    MA]Sr   AVITH    A    CLOSED    HAND.  149 

to  give  a  ball  that  would  cost  a  hundred  and  twentj-five 
thousand  dollars  ;  that  he  had  hoard  of  a  ball  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort  that  had  been  given  in  Rome  or  Egypt, 
or  Babylon,  Thebes,  or  some  old-fashioned  sort  of  a 
place,  which  had  cost  a  hundred  thousand.  Well,  he 
was  "going  to  give  'em  twenty-five  thousand  better; 
raise  'em  out  of  their  boots  !  Twenty-live  thousand  for 
a  margin,  you  see." 

At  mention  of  this  stock  term,  the  old  familiar  word 
of  Wall  Street,  the  little  man  grew  more  uneasy.  Once 
more  he  alluded  eagerly  to  Wall  Street.     All  in  vain  ! 

Again  the  great,  big  man  with  the  tight  hands  turned 
to  other  themes.  His  whole  heart  was  in  this  ball,  he 
said.  No,  he  had  long  ceased  to  care  for  making  money. 
He  left  all  that  to  others.  He  did  not  want  to  make 
money  now. 

He  only  wanted  to  spend  money  now.  Yet  it  was  ob- 
served even  as  he  spoke  that  he  held  v^cry  tightly  to  the 
gold  and  leather  arms  of  his  luxurious  throne.  Yes,  he 
was  going  to  have  all  the  richest  and  greatest  men  and 
the  most  beautiful  women  there,  the  little  parchment 
man  among  the  rest  of  them.  Atlast  wine  was  brought. 
Generously  it  flowed.  The  red  hands  grew  more  red, 
more  large  and  full  of  blood  ;  but,  as  if  by  force  of 
habit,  they  tightened  to  the  arms  of  the  throne. 

The  little  man  drank  and  drank  with  desperation  ; 
but  alas  !  there  was  for  him  but  one  balm  in  Gilcad  for 
his  deep  wounds.  This  gaunt  little  gambler  knew  but 
one  consolation. 

The  great  millionaire  understood  all  this  from  the  fii-st. 
He  was  playing  cat  and  hkhiso  with  the  weary  and  miser- 
able little  wretch  before  him  who  was  not  permitted  to 
die. 

He  was  feasting,  fattening  on  him  in  his  heart,  just  as 


150  THE    DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

he,  the  little  nervous  wretch,  had  feasted  on  a  hundred 
thousand  others. 

As  said  before,  here  was  a  new  order  of  man,  a  new 
species  of  suffering,  and  a  new  and  terrible  delight  at  this 
suffering. 

Both  these  men  were  new  types,  men  new  in  fact,  new 
in  story,  romance,  or  rhyme. 

These  two  men  liad  been  friends  ;  and  they  had  been 
enemies,  too.  They  were,  in  fact,  covered  all  over  with 
scars  the  one  had  inflicted  on  the  other.  And  then  they 
together  had  made  many  a  "  pool,"  "  corner,"  "  twist  "■ 
together.  They  had  had  their  "puts"  and  "calls" 
and  "straddles"  in  Wall  Street,  and  stood  shoulder  to 
shoulder  till  they  had,  as  the  big,  fat  man  once  put  it, 
"  made  Rome  howl." 

But  that  was  all  over  now.  They  had  made  millions 
together  ;  but  now,  somehow,  it  seemed  that  the  millions 
they  both  had  made  had  settled  over  into  the  big,  fat 
man's  great,  big  hands  ;  and  they  were  clutching  tightly 
to  the  arms  of  the  luxurious  throne  of  leather  and  gold. 

They  would  never  let  go  of  this  gold  any  more. 

Suddenly  the  great  man's  mouth,  made  wider  with 
wine,  opened  wide,  and  he  began  of  his  own  accord  to 
talk  of  Wall  Street. 

Who  was  the  new  man  whom  all  feared  down  there 
and  was  never  seen,  never  personally  ?  He  must  have 
him  come  to  his  ball.  This  new  man  from  out  the  Far 
West,  with  a  car-load  of  solid  silver  and  gold,  must  come 
to  his  ball.  He  wanted  to  astonish  him.  The  little 
brown  man  settled  back  with  a  groan. 

The  great,  big  man  grow  greater  in  his  own  estimation, 
bigger,  as  he  talked  on  in  this  strain,  hardly  letting  go 
of  the  arms  of  his  chair  long  enough  to  lift  a  glass  to  his 
enormous  mouth.     And  the  little  man  grew  less  and  less 


THE    MAN"   WITH   A    CLOSED    HAND.  151 

as  he  listened  to  the  glorj  and  the  prosperity  of  tlie  man 
\vho  was  destroying  him,  till  it  seemed  he  would  wither 
np  and  blow  away,  or,  like  a  ghost,  sink  through  the 
floor.  How  the  millionaire  did  enjoy  the  worrying  of 
this  little  guest — this  httle,  brown  mouse  in  the  great, 
tight  paws  of  the  cat ! 

Once,  twice,  thrice  in  sheer  despair  the  little  man 
essayed  to  escape  the  great  cat  that  gloated  over  his  misery. 
But  each  time  a  big  hand  thrust  out  and  clasped  hard, 
and  still  held  tightly  to  a  thin  arm,  and  drew  the  little 
man,  the  trembling  bundle  of  nerves,  back  into  his  seat. 

And  each  time  the  trembhng  and  tortured  little  man, 
whose  lips  were  dry  and  parched  in  spite  of  all  the  wine, 
still  faintly  and  feebly  hoped  that  the  great  man  might 
at  the  last  give  him  one  word  of  comfort,  one  little 
spark  of  light  in  his  dark  life.  This  one  faint  hope 
made  him  endure,  made  him  still  bear. 

"Why,  they  had  been  thieves  together  ;  no,  not  thiev^es, 
more  than  that,  bigger  than  that,  meaner  than  that  a 
thousand  times — betrayers,  plunderers,  robbers,  wreck- 
ei-s.  Why,  then,  should  they  not  stand  shoulder  to 
shoulder  now  ? 

AVhy,  indeed  !  Do  you  suppose  the  little  man  would 
have  been  more  lenient  than  the  big,  phlegmatic  man 
before  him,  had  their  positions  been  reversed  by  the 
wheel  of  fortune  ? 

Not  at  all.  He  would  have  gloated  over  the  other  s 
misery  just  the  same.  Such  is  the  singular  result  of 
this  new  and  unexampled  order  of  things,  this  magnifi- 
cent gambling.  Such  is  one  of  the  not  desirable  feat- 
ures of  this  new  order  of  men  here  discussed. 

The  day  was  far  spent  when  the  little  brown  man, 
with  tottering  limbs  and  in  utter  despair,  arose  to  leave 
the  presence  of  the  nn'glity  millionaire. 


152  TUE   DESTRUCTION    OF   GOTHAM. 

With  a  refinement  of  cruelty — a  quality  not  apparent 
in  anything  else  about  him — the  great  man  with  his  own 
great  hand  turned  tlie  golden  knob  and  swung  open  the 
massive  mahogany  door  for  the  little  man  to  depart. 

He  even  descended  far  down  the  great  stone  steps, 
shook  the  trembling  little  handful  of  parchment  and 
bones,  and  begging  him  not  to  forget  that  he  was  to  be 
one  of  the  chief  features  of  the  great  ball,  bade  him 
good-night. 

Ah  !  the  agony,  the  humiliation,  the  utter  woe  and 
despair  of  this  little  brown  citizen,  bereft  of  all  friends 
and  friendships,  as  he  stood  there  alone  in  the  open 
street,  deserted  by  his  fellow-robber  and  last  possible 
hope. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 


THE    UNINVITED    GUEST. 


Any  man  who  truly  loves  a  good  woman  cannot  bo 
entirely  a  bad  man. 

This  had  been  one  of  the  sayings  and  teachings  of 
'W^alton. 

It  was,  in  fact,  one  of  his  creeds  of  faith.  But  he 
found  it  hard  to  believe  it  strictly  now,  so  hard  to  believe 
and  liv^e  up  to  as  he  saw  and  j^atientl}''  accepted  the  fact 
of  Matherson's  steadfast  devotion  to  Ilattie  Lane. 

He  turned  all  the  facts  over  and  over  in  his  mind. 
He  put  Ills  precept  to  the  severest  test.  And,  after  all, 
he  had  to  admit  that,  with  all  the  diabolical  blackness  of 
this  man's  heart,  he  had  somewhere  in  him,  according 
to  his  own  saying  and  teaching,  some  saving  grace.  For 
surely  he  was  and  had  been  faithfully  and  constantly  in 
love  with  tills  one  noble  and  beautiful  woman  for  a  long 
time. 

Here  was  a  truly  good  woman.  His  enemy — his  one 
mortal  enemy,  whom  he  had  often  wished  to  take  by  the 
throat,  whom  he  still  half  believed  he  would  some  day 
murder,  in  love  with  this  lady,  truly,  faithfully  in  love 
M'ith  her.  Pie  was  perplexed.  But  he  settled  his  hat 
only  the  more  firmly  back  on  his  head,  and  lifted  his 
face  only  more  fairly  before  the  world  and  up  toward 
heaven  as  he  accepted  the  facts,  and  as  the  days  went  by 
tried  never  so  hard  to  be  true  to  himself  and  his  jn'c- 
cepts. 


154  THE    DESTRUCTION'    OF    GOTHAM. 

And  then  again,  what  coiihl  he  liiniself  have  done  with 
all  the  wealth  and  splendor  of  this  magnificent  woman's 
love  had  it  been  his  ? 

It  begins  to  look,  under  the  developments  of  civiliza- 
tion and  the  demands  of  the  time,  as  if  you  should  have 
a  very  large,  fashionable,  and  well-furnished  house  to 
put  a  woman's  love  in. 

"Walton  had  not  so  much  as  a  place  to  set  a  pot  of 
flowers.  It  is  true,  the  man  out  in  the  mines,  his  fellow- 
scribe  and  i^artner,  still  wrote  glowing  accounts  of  the 
vast  possibility  of  the  new  mine.  It  is  quite  as  true  that 
he  still  simultaneously  and  regularly  wrote  for  a  little 
money  to  jDush  the  great  enterprise. 

An  undiscovered  and  imaginary  gold  mine  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains  is  hardly  a  fit  marriage  dowry  for  a 
fashionable  young  lady  of  'New  York. 

If  it  were,  we  might  have  many  weddings  at  very 
short  notice.  And  so  Walton  could  only  wait,  work  on, 
take  in  his  daily  round  of  duties  and  of  toil,  and  wait. 

He  had  literally  no  diversions  at  all.  It  was  only  toil 
and  duty.  Even  the  great,  full,  round  moon  of  Hope, 
which  rises  and  rides  forever  in  the  heavens  for  us  all, 
was  for  him  setting  far  away  in  the  west,  dim,  distant, 
and  obscured. 

Matherson,  rich,  handsome,  elegant  in  all  things, 
popular  everywhere,  hand  and  glove  with  the  great  men 
of  the  great  city — this  man's  figure  stood  up  tall  and 
insolent  forever  now  between  him  and  the  dim  and  dis- 
tant light  that  was  setting  steadily,  slowly,  certainly 
away  in  the  west. 

Farewell,  Hattie  Lane  !  Farewell  to  the  one  fair 
woman  forever  ! 

As  the  season  wore  by  and  the  cold  and  frosty  days 
fell  sharp  and  crisp,  the  world  was  once  more  devoting 


THE    UNINVITED    GUEST.  155 

itself  to  indoor  ])lcasiircs  licre  in  tlie  i^reat  and  opulent 
city. 

It  began  to  ho  publicly  whispered  now  that  the  rail- 
road king,  the  magnate  of  all  America,  the  one  million- 
aire of  all  the  millionaires,  had  at  last  fixed  upon  the  day 
and  date  for  the  grandest  ball  that  could  be  conceived. 

Walton  stopped  eating  his  morning  cliop  in  the  little 
down-to^\^l  restaurant,  laid  down  his  paper,  and  thought 
a  lono;  time  in  silence  when  he  read  the  announcement  of 
his  employer's  purpose. 

He  knew  that  Matherson  would  be  there,  for  he  was 
one  of  the  chosen  friends  of  the  great  American  king. 
He  knew  he  would  be  there  with  Hattie  Lane  at  his  side 
in  all  her  splendor,  innocence  ;  the  pure  woman's  heart 
would  be  full  ;  happiness  would  repose  in  her  peerless, 
sweet  face. 

And  he  knew  quite  as  well  that  he  himself  would  be 
there  ;  that  the  great  American  millionaire,  the  king  of 
all  the  kings,  would  require  his  presence  there  to  record 
and  set  down  the  glory  and  the  coming  in  and  the  going 
out  of  his  following. 

He  knew  his  paper  would  require  all  this  of  him.  It 
was  a  miserable  position,  a  mean,  hard  position. 

It  broke  his  heart  to  think  of  it  ! 

****** 

More  than  a  week  before  the  event  took  place,  the  one 
talkcd-of  event,  the  one  tremendous  crush  and  desirable 
jam  of  the  fashionable  season,  he  was  sent  to  the  king's 
palace  to  write  up  and  describe,  in  column  after  column 
of  detail,  the  wonderful  wealth,  the  luxury,  the  Solomon- 
like magniticence  of  this  man,  with  his  hundred  millions 
and  his  two  big,  red  hands  and  tightly  closed  fists. 

Day  after  day,  till  all  M'as  entirely  complete,  he  was 
ordered  to  keep  at  this  wurk  of  description  and  detail,  so 


loC  THE   DESTllUGTIOX    OF    GOTHAM. 

that  nothing  sliould  be  omitted  on  tlie  grand  occasion. 
Cohimns  were  ah'cady  in  type  descriptive  of  this  glorious 
ball  days  before  it  took  place. 

Dresses  were  described  in  detail  to  the  last  shade  of 
color.  Milliners'  bills,  which  were  sent  forward  and  sub- 
mitted to  this  patient  and  trusty  scribe,  were  given,  with 
curious  and  pretentious  regard  to  extravagance.  Money 
as  a  bribe  was  sometimes  sent  with  these  bills  and  de- 
scriptions from  the  owners  and  names  of  the  dresses. 

That  this  money  was  always  returned  promptly  and 
untouched  it  is  unnecessary  to  add. 

It  may  be  a  matter  worthy  of  note,  however,  to  ob- 
serve how  impartially  such  vulgar-minded  people  were 
treated.  You  could  see  no  spice  of  resentment  in  the 
scribe's  description  and  praise  of  those  who  so  insolently 
sought  to  purchase  praise. 

When  the  day,  the  hour,  the  very  late  hour  at  last 
arrived  for  the  guests  to  pour  in,  all  save  the  guests  were 
heartily  tired  of  it — so  tired  ! 

Walton  was  almost  glad  he  was  not  a  millionaire.  lie 
was  certainly  glad  he  was  not  such  a  millionaire  as  this 
one. 

And  yet  this  great  millionaire  did  not  seem,  after  all, 
an  entirely  bad  man.  He  had  hobbled  about  in  a  fat, 
helpless  fashion  all  over  the  wonderful  palace  with  the 
scribe  day  after  day.  lie  had  been  all  kindness  ;  he  did 
not  seem  either  so  ignorant,  or  silly,  or  vulgar  as  he  had 
sometimes  thought  him  to  be.  It  seemed,  in  fact,  that, 
setting  aside  his  pitiful  vanity  aud  vain  folly  in  the 
glittering  glories  of  his  palace,  and  a  firm  determination 
to  hold  fast  to  all  his  millions  with  his  big,  fat  hands, 
that  he  was  a  very  fair  and  honest-hearted  old  man. 

But,  somehow,  and  for  all  his  glory  and  love  of  it,  he 
seemed  at  times  unhappy,  almost  sad. 


THE   UNINVITFilD   GUEST.  157 

Sometimes  he  Avould  stop,  as  he  waddled  wearily 
about  pointini,^  out  his  splendor  to  Walton,  and  stare  out 
of  his  weak,  red  eyes,  as  if  he  saw  strange  things. 

Let  us  hasten  over  the  many  details  of  this  gorgeous 
and  fashionable  affair,  which  had  been  so  elaborately 
described  for  a  hundred  great  newspapers  long  before  it 
transpired,  and  come  to  the  singular,  unbidden  guest 
who  came  to  the  great  ball  and  was  the  last  to  go. 

It  was  after  supper — and  such  a  supper  !  The  great 
railroad  king,  "  the  richest  man  in  the  world,"  had  sought 
out  the  most  magnificent  woman  of  all  the  most  magnifi- 
cent women  there,  to  do  honor  and  to  delight  himself 
M'ith  her  sweet  company. 

AVith  this  lady  on  his  arm,  he  was  leading  leisurely 
down  the  drawing-room,  as  if  intent  on  showing  her 
something  more  of  his  splendor  and  wealth  farther  on — 
perhaps  a  Meissonier  on  the  wall  of  another  gorgeous 
room. 
He  saw  sometiiino:  ! 

The  light  which  fell  upon  the  gold  and  glory  here 
was  ample,  surely.  None  could  say  it  was  the  fault  of 
the  h'ght.  None  could  say  that  the  light  was  doubtful 
or  uncertain  in  the  least. 

But  the  great  railroad  king,  the  man  who  held  tight 
on  to  a  hundred  million  dollars  with  the  two  fat,  red 
hands,  stopped  and  stood  still  for  a  moment  as  he  led 
Iluttie  Lane  down  the  great  drawing-room. 

He  stared  as  if  he  saw  something  strange  and  unde- 
sired.  lie  stopped  and  stood  and  stared  as  Walton,  who 
even  now  from  another  part  of  the  room  saw  him,  had 
seen  him  stop  and  stare  when  only  they  two  together 
had  walked  these  silken  carpets,  sat  in  these  great  chairs 
of  leather  and  gold,  or  glanced  at  the  priceless  wealth  on 
these  walls. 


158  THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   fiOTlIAM. 

Let  lis  not  permit  ourselves  to  say  tliat  this  man  was  a 
man  who  was  entirely  vulgar  in  his  taste  or  his  display 
of  wealth.  It  is  too  much  the  custom  to  call  such  men 
vulgar,  and  to  accuse  all  wealthy  people  of  bad  taste. 

What  is  good  taste  ?  You  can  no  more  lay  down  a 
rule  of  taste  for  a  man  to  build  by  than  you  can  lay  down 
a  rule  of  taste  for  a  flower  to  grow  by. 

There  are  thousands  of  flowers,  and  all  so  different. 

Yet  God  made  every  one  of  them  :,  and  made  every 
one  in  perfect  taste.  For  my  part,  I  like  the  gorgeous 
abundance  and  majestic  assertion  of  the  magnolia. 

This  house  here,  with  its  appointments  and  adorn- 
ments, was  of  the  magnolia  order.  Hattie  Lane,  indeed, 
the  stately  and  matchless  lady  who  leaned  on  the  great 
man's  arm  as  he  stopped  and  stood  there  for  an  instant, 
was  of  the  magnolia  order  of  flowers. 

And  surely  she,  of  all  persons,  was  the  last  one  in  the 
world  with  whose  presence  you  could  associate  even  a 
suggestion  of  bad  taste. 

The  millionaire  stood  still  and  immovable.  It  was 
only  for  an  instant,  however,  that  the  man,  with  this 
beautiful  woman  on  his  arm,  stopped  and  stood  still  and 
stared. 

Then  he  led  the  beautiful  lady  forward  rather  doubt- 
fully, and  said  to  Hattie  Lane  as  he  did  so  : 

"  I  don't  know  that  man." 

"Whatman?" 

"  There  !" 

"  Where  ?" 

The  man  turned  with  the  lady  on  his  arm,  and  came 
a  little  way  back  toward  a  great  chair  of  leather  and 
gold  by  a  table,  and  said  : 
"Here." 

"  Why,  where  ?" 


THE    UNINVITED   GUEST.  169 

"  Here  in  tliis  cliair  !" 

The  great  niillionairc  put  out  liis  huge,  fat,  I'cd  right 
hand,  and  ahnost  fell  as  he  brought  it  down,  as  if  to 
strike  lieavily  on  tlie  back  of  a  chair. 

This  cliair  was  exactly  like  tlie  huge  leather  and  gold 
chair  which  sat  just  across  on  the  other  side  of  tlie  table, 
with  the  gorgeous  wealth  of  costly  books  and  curios. 

There  was  no  one  sitting  there.  There  was  no  guest 
there  to  fill  this  great,  luxurious  chair. 

However,  in  a  moment,  to  all  outward  appearances  at 
least,  the  millionaire  recovered  himself  both  in  body  and 
in  mind. 

It  had  at  first  occurred  to  TTattie  Lane  that  it  might 
somehow  have  been  a  reliection  from  some  one  of  the 
French  or  Venetian  mirrors  in  the  splendid  palace  which 
had  deceived  him. 

She  threw  out  this  suggestion  in  a  few  well-chosen  and 
sympathetic  M'ords  as  they  walked  on,  and,  strange  to 
say,  it  brought  a  world  of  relief  to  the  man's  troubled 
mind. 

He  took  in  a  long  breath  then,  and  so  they  walked  on 
as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

Still,  for  all  that,  when  the  guests  were  gone,  when 
the  last  of  a  thousand  carriages  had  rolled  away,  and  that 
silence  which  overtakes  all  seasons  of  excitement  fell 
upon  this  imperial  palace,  with  its  one  man  holding  his 
hundred  millions  tightly  in  his  two  fat,  red,  and  helpless 
hands,  he  was  lonely,  so  very,  very  lonely. 

He  was  left  entirely  alone  now.  Not  purposely  so. 
His  family  and  friends  were  true  and  loving  enough. 
But  there  are  moments  following  great  scenes  of  excite- 
ment when  you  must  somehow  get  away  by  yourself. 
There  are  moments  after  scenes  like  this  ball  when  each 
one  will,  if  possible,  steal  quite  away  to  one's  self  for 


IGO  THE   DESTRUCTION"   OE   GOTHAM. 

luilf  an  lionr  or  so,  as  if  to  collect  one's  self.  The  old 
biblical  and  human  expression  of  a  desire  to  "go  up 
into  the  mountains  to  pray"  had  something  of  this  feel- 
ing which  overtakes  us  at  such  times  as  this. 

It  is  an  irresistible  desire  to  get  away  from  others 
and  get  back  to  your  own  identity,  your  own  indi- 
viduality. 

The  strong  English  expression  of  "  pulling  one's  self 
together"  means  a  great  deal,  but  not  quite  what  is. 
meant  here  or  in  the  Bible. 

The  lights  burned  not  so  brilliantly  now  that  the 
guests  were  gone  ;  but  still  there  was  light  enough  for 
the  one  lone  man — light  enough  to  drink  by.  A  man 
does  not  require  much  light  when  he  is  weary  and  sleepy 
and  sad. 

He  knew  his  valet  would  come  soon  and  take  him  to 
bed.  Maybe  some  one  of  the  family  would  come  to 
him  there  and  talk  with  him  for  a  little  time  of  the 
splendid  scenes,  of  the  most  brilliant  ball  that  the  world 
had  ever  witnessed. 

No  one  came.  His  head  settled  a  little  on  his  breast. 
His  two  heavy  red  hands  still  rested  on  the  great  soft 
arms  of  the  easy-chair,  and  the  man  was  very  comfortable. 
But  only  for  a  second.  He  seemed  to  feel  rather  than 
see  that  some  one  beside  himself  was  sitting  at  that  table. 
He  filled  his  glass  again. 

The  man  with  so  many  millions  slowly  lifted  his  head, 
slowly  lifted  his  glass,  slowly  opened  his  eyes  widely, 
steadily,  and  looked  dimly  across  the  table  where  had  sat 
the  imaginary  guest  an  hour  before. 

He  had  not  forgotten  on  what  he  had  tried  to  place 
his  heavy  right  hand  only  an  hour  before. 

The  guest  had  come  back,  and  was  there  distinctly 
now.     The  millionaire  did  not  cry  out  or  lift  a  hand. 


THE    UNINVITED   GUEST.  l6l 

He  did  not  even  open  his  lips.  lie  only  set  down  the 
glass,  untouched,  and  looked  and  looked  ! 

Maybe  he  could  not  have  cried  out  or  even  opened  his 
lips  to  save  his  life  if  he  had  tried. 

lie  sat  there  helpless,  alone  in  the  dim  light,  startled, 
terrified,  fascinated,  looking,  staring — his  eyes  starting 
from  his  head,  looking  straight  on,  his  wide  mouth  wide 
open.  His  eyes  were  fixed  steadily  and  still  on  the 
great  chair  just  opposite  and  its  strange  and  shadowy 
occupant.     He  looked  a  long  time. 

And  then  at  last  he  saw  in  the  dim  light  that  tliis  gaest 
was  not  empty-handed. 

He  could  not  see  who  or  what  manner  of  man  was 
there. 

In  fact,  the  occupant  of  the  chair  did  not  seem  to  take 
any  real  form  at  first. 

After  a  while,  however,  the  millionaire,  who  had  been 
a  farmer  in  his  day,  seemed  to  vaguely  recognize  the 
figure  and  form  of  an  old  bent  and  decrepit  farm-hand 
who  had  labored  for  and  with  him. 

A  great  relief  ! 

He  was  glad  !  He  had  not  been  generous  to  this  old 
farm-hand,  nor  to  any  one,  indeed,  as  to  tliat,  till  of  late. 
But  he  promised  himself  that  this  old  farm-hand,  who 
had  always  been  so  old,  and  bent,  and  helpless,  and  tired- 
looking,  he  would  now  help  most  generously. 

But  how  did  he  get  in  ? 

And  what  was  that  which  he  had  brought  with  him  on 
his  arm  and  shoulder  ?  Why  was  it  hanging  there  ? 
What  was  it  ?     A  scythe  ! 

It  was  surely  not  haying  or  harvest  time.  There  was 
snow  on  the  ground  outside.  And  yet  this  strange, 
silent,  obtrusive,  and  crippled  old  farm-hand  had  surely 
brought  his  scythe  with  him  ! 


162  THE   DESTliUCTlON   OF   GOTII.Vil. 

The  millionaire,  holding  so  tight  on  to  his  one  hur.dred 
millions  with  his  two  massive  red  hands,  was  about  to 
speak,  to  cry  out,  to  protest. 

But  just  then  the  bent  and  bony  old  farm-hand  reached 
out  a  long,  fieshless  arm,  and  set  something  down  right  in 
the  centre  of  the  table  between  them — right  by  the  side 
of  the  untouched  glass.  Then  he  drew  back  his  shadowy, 
fieshless  arm  and  sat  still. 

He  sat  so  silently  and  intently  still,  looking  straight  at 
that  little  something  which  he  had  set  down  there  so 
silently  and  so  mysteriously  between  them,  that  the  great 
millionaire  became  more  terrified  than  ever  before. 

The  millionaire  tried  to  move  his  hand,  to  lift  it  up 
and  appeal  in  some  way  against  this — all  this. 

It  was  horrible  !  so  horrible  !  so  still  !  so  terrible — all 
this  ! 

He  could  not  move  his  hand.  He  tried  to  move  his 
foot.     It  was  as  if  it  weighed  a  thousand  tons. 

He  tried  to  cry  out.     His  lips  refused  to  obey  him. 

It  was  as  if  all  his  heaps  of  gold  weighed  him  down 
and  held  him  still  and  helpless. 

Suddenly  and  yet  slowly  the  long,  fieshless  right  arm 
of  the  bent  and  bony  old  man  reached  out  and  over  the 
table  and  pointed  at  the  little  object  which  had  been  set 
down  between  them. 

The  long,  fieshless  fingers  touched  this. 

The  eyes  of  the  milHonaire  fastened  eagerly  uj)on  it. 
And  then — oh,  horror  ! 

It  was  an  hour-glass  ! 

An  hour-glass,  and  the  sands  were  running  fast  and 
few  ! 

There  were  but  a  dozen  grains  !  going  !  going  !  going  1 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE   APrAJRITION. 


Days,  weeks,  months,  swept  by,  but  the  memory  of 
the  stranger,  the  unbidden  guest,  the  man  with  the 
scythe,  would  not  pass  away  with  them.  The  great 
jnillionaire  felt  that  this  man  from  Sable  Land,  where 
he  had  once  lived,  and  about  which  clustered  many  a 
pleasant  memory,  would  soon  return.  And  he  somehow 
felt  that  he  would  go  away  with  him  when  he  came 
again.     Go  where  ? 

lie  did  not  know  where  this  strange,  silent  man  would 
go — where  he  would  take  him.  He  only  felt  certain 
that  he  would  come  to  him  again  ;  come  suddenly,  silently 
as  he  had  come  before.  And  he  as  certainly  knew  that 
when  he  came  again  he  would  get  up  from  his  great  gold 
and  leather  throne  there  in  his  grand  palace,  and  leave  all 
his  money — all  his  millions  of  money — and  follow  him 
away.  He  knew  he  would  follow  on  and  on  and  on, 
somewhere.  He  felt  certain  that  he  would  obey  this 
silent  stranger  without  one  word  of  remonstrance.  All 
the  world,  he  knew,  would  obey  him  at  this  moment ; 
])ut  this  silent  man  who  had  come  and  gone  away  seemed 
to  be  not  of  this  world  at  all.  He  was  of  another  world, 
and  would  come  again.  This  vast  and  solemn  certainty 
made  a  shadow  on  the  walls  and  over  the  door  and  about 
the  glittering  hearthstone  in  the  gorgeous  palace. 

More  than  once  the  master,  the  man  whose  great,  big 
hands  held  tightly  on  to  so  many  millions,  bade  the  ser- 


164  THE   DESTRUCTIOK   OF  GOTHAM. 

vants  turn  on  more  light.  More  than  once  the  great 
man  tried  to  drive  away  the  sombre  sliadows  from  the 
gorgeous  walls  and  from  about  the  brilliant  hearthstone. 
The  shadow  would  not  go  away. 

The  great  millionaire  grew  very  miserable.  He  began, 
from  his  own  misery,  to  be  able  to  see  the  sorrows  and 
the  miseries  of  others.  He  gave  a  milhon  suddenly,  and 
to  the  surprise  of  the  wondering  world,  to  a  great  charity. 

Out  of  a  hundred  millions  and  more  this  great  man 
positively  gave  a  million !  Was  the  shadow  at  his 
shoulder?  Had  the  silent  and  unbidden  guest  come 
again  ? 

The  great,  red  hands  could  not  hold  on  forever  to 
the  hundred  millions.  This  the  whole  world  knew. 
The  whole  world  knew,  as  he  himself  must  have  known 
— the  whole  world  knew  that  the  letting  go  of  that  hun- 
dred millions  was  only  a  question  of  time. 

Was  he  already  beginning  to  let  go  ?  Was  Death  al- 
ready shaking  loose  the  great,  big,  red  hands  from  those 
millions  ? 

One  day,  late  in  the  afternoon,  he  sat  in  the  great  gold 
and  leather  chair  asking  for  more  hght.  The  servants 
turned  on  all  the  lights  that  art  or  natui'e  could  provide. 

Then  suddenly  again  there  was  a  laboring  man  stand- 
ing before  him  in  his  gorgeous  office  and  study.  Then 
another  came  ;  and  then  another. 

The  great  man  took  in  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction, 
for  he  knew  that  Death  never  called  in  the  company  of 
any  one. 

He  at  once  resumed  all  his  old  authority,  and  bluntly 
demanded  of  the  three  men  what  they  were  doing  there. 

The  lirst  of  the  three  stepped  forward,  awkwardly 
twisting  his  hat  in  his  broad  and  bony  hands.  He  was  a 
gaunt,  lean,  laboring  man.     His  hands  were  dirty  and 


THE   APPAUITION.  165 

hard.  His  work  was  hard  and  dirty  work.  And  then 
he  had  not  had  time  to  wash  his  hands  in  nearly  twenty 
years. 

The  man,  with  his  two  companions  at  his  back,  began, 
as  he  twisted  and  twirled  and  pulled  at  his  greasy  slouch 
hat  with  his  big,  broad  and  dirty  hands  : 

*'  We  Tins  has  been  sent  to  see  yer,  yer  know.  Yer 
told  ns,  yer  know,  yesterday,  to  come  to-day.  We 
came  to-day.  What  we  uns  has  to  say  is  this  :  We  uns 
is  the  car-drivers  that  was  true  to  yer  all  through.  When 
the  freight  hands'  strike  came,  we  uns  and  the  four  hun- 
dred that  we  have  come  to  yer  to  speak  about  did  not 
take  part.  When  the  car-drivers'  strike  came  we  did 
not  stop  work,  but  kept  right  on.  And  we  uns  had  to 
light  to  keep  right  on.  Bricks  and  stones  and  broken 
glass  we  had  to  face,  gov'nor,  to  keep  right  on — eh, 
boys?" 

The  two  men  at  his  back  were  greatly  excited  as  he 
talked.  One  of  them  stopped  twisting  his  hat  a  second, 
and  lifted  a  linger  to  an  ugly  wound  in  the  face  ;  while 
the  other  shrugged  a  shoulder,  and  looked  earnestly  and 
eagerly  at  the  great  millionaire  with  his  only  remaining 
eye.  Evidently  these  men  were  all  wounded  veterans  in 
the  war  for  the  rich  man's  interests.  They  had  been  sent, 
in  all  probability,  by  their  fellow-laborers  because  of 
their  wounds  to  plead  the  car-drivers'  case  with  their 
great  master.  But  they  were  not  eloquent  of  tongue  ; 
and  they  were  too  proud  to  show  their  wounds  and  let 
their  wounds  speak  for  them.  Each  man  here  before 
this  man  with  the  hundred  millions  Wiis  just  that  much, 
more  than  a  Coriolanus. 

Beside  that,  each  one  of  these  three  brave  leaders  had. 
long  before,  shouldered  muskets  and  marched  down  to 
the  greatest  battles  that  the  world  has  ever  witnessed- 


1C6  THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

They  had  fought  through  the  terrible  campaigns  for  the 
freedom  of  the  black  man.  But  it  was  the  wliite  man 
that  was  enslaved  now.  They  themselves  were  slaves. 
But  they  were  not  eloquent  in  their  own  cause.  They 
were  dull,  sodden,  stupid.  They  had  not  taken  sides 
with  any  of  the  strikers  against  the  rich  men  who  em- 
ployed them  and  for  whom  they  had  toiled  on  steadily 
for  twenty  years.  Their  disci^^line  in  the  army  had  made 
them  faithful  men. 

The  awkward  and  helpless  leader  of  the  three  who 
represented  the  hundreds  of  loyal  followers  away  down 
in  the  slums  of  the  great  city  began  again  : 

"  "We  uns  have  worked  for  yer  since  my  first  baby  was 
born — eh,  boys  ?" 

Again  the  two  men  behind  the  leader  nod  their  gray 
and  storm-beaten  old  heads  and  hitch  their  awkward 
bodies  a  little  closer  up  toward  their  leader,  as  he  con- 
tinues : 

"An'  now  that  baby  is  growed  up,  an' — an'  gone — 
gone  where  ?  Well,  gov'nor,  yer  see  I  didn't  git  pay 
'nough  of  yer  to  edicate  her,  or  have  time  'nough  to 
look  after  her.  Sixteen  hours  a  day  is  too  much, 
gov'nor.  An'  that's  what  we  came  to  talk  about. 
Tliafs  what  we  said  to  yer  long  ago,  an'  yer  said,  '  Be 
faithful  to  me. '  Yer  said,  '  Be  good  boys  an'  stick  to 
me  till  the  storm  blows  over  an'  the  strike  is  done,  an' 
then  come  to  me,  an'  I'll  stand  by  yer.'  An'  now  we've 
come — eh,  boys  ?" 

Again  the  man  with  the  battered  face  and  the  herculean 
Cyclops  hitch  themselves  along  a  little  closer  to  their 
leader.  They  are  eager  lo  hear  what  the  great  million- 
aire is  going  to  say. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  said  you  should  come.  Now  what  do 
you  want  ?" 


THE   APrARTTION".  167 

"  "Wliat  do  W'G  want,  gov'nor  ?  We  don't  want  six- 
teen liours,  nor  fifteen,  nor  fourteen,  nor  twelve.  We 
want  less  time  an'  more  money,  or  we  strike  !  A  young 
man  might  stand  on  his  jjegs  a  dozen  years  or  so  a  dozen 
hours  a  day  ;  but  an  old  man  like  me  an'  my  battered 
old  pards  can't  stand  it,  gov'nor.  The  j^egs  gien  out, 
gov'nor.  The  pegs  git  paralyzed,  an'  a  man  lies  down 
after  his  sixteen  hours  a  day,  an'  don't  git  up  ag'in,  gov'- 
nor— no,  sir,  don't  git  up  ag'in.  He  can't ;  he  has  a 
apoplexy.  A  wagon  comes  up  the  alley  ;  a  little,  red 
pine  box  ;  the  Pauper's  Island,  gov'nor." 

The  great  man  had  risen  to  his  feet  as  the  veteran  old 
car-driver,  who  liad  helped  make  him  so  great,  began  to 
talk  loud  and  threatened  to  strike. 

This  loud  talk  made  him  strong  and  resolute.  He  was 
not  a  coward.  He  was  not  afraid  of  any  man  or  any- 
thing that  would  talk  or  grow  stormy.  He  was  only 
afraid  of  the  silent  and  mysterious  man  from  Sable 
Land  who  had  come  all  alone,  and  been  so  terribly, 
fearfully,  deathly  silent. 

He  had  put  a  big,  red  hand  beliind  him  as  he  arose. 
The  big  forefinger  had  touched  a  little  golden  button, 
unseen  and  unobserved  by  the  rude  and  awkward  orator 
before  him. 

As  the  orator  ceased  to  take  breath  and  rather  courage 
from  his  eager  companions  at  his  back,  four  strong  men 
hastily  and  silently  entered  the  gorgeous  office  close  be- 
hind the  orator  and  his  two  friends. 

Not  a  word  was  said  ;  only  a  sign  from  the  large  com- 
manding millionaire  as  he  saw  his  men  enter. 

The  battered  old  veterans  turned  their  gray  old  heads. 
Their  eyes  met  those  of  the  elegant,  strong  and  well-fed 
body-guard,  and  that  was  all.  Their  eyes  fell  to  the 
floor,  and  mechanically  they  slowly  and  doggedly,  like 


168  THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

well -trained  slaves,  moved  toward  the  door  by  which 
they  had  entered  ;  and  so  on  and  out  again  into  the 
street. 

It  is  not  worth  while  to  follow  these  three  leaders  now 
farther  than  to  record  the  fact  that  the  strikers  that 
night  enrolled  them  and  all  their  honest  and  industrious 
following.  And  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  end  of 
Gotham. 

As  for  the  great  millionaire,  he  felt  that  he  had  done 
only  his  duty.  What  right  had  these  men  to  hold  him 
to  his  word  ?  He  had  done  enough  for  them.  Had  he 
not  given  them  employment  for  years  ?  Had  he  not  dis- 
tributed many  costly  presents  as  well  as  much  money  an- 
nually among  his  chief  officers  ?  True,  these  presents 
did  not  reach  down  among  the  poor  to  any  extent,  but 
they  had  their  work,  their  fifteen  and  sixteen  hours  a  day. 
Was  that  not  enough  for  the  miserably  poor  ? 

But,  somehow,  the  great,  rich  man  was  not  at  all  tran- 
quil at  heart.  The  darkness  grew  more  dense.  He  all 
the  time  wanted  light.  And  then  he  often  found  him- 
self thinking  of  strange  things. 

Once  he  fell  to  thinking  of  the  one  rich  man  who  was 
mentioned  in  the  Bible.  And  why  was  he  mentioned  in 
the  Bible  ?  Merely  to  mention  the  fact  that  he  was  down 
in  hell,  crying  out  to  a  beggar  up  in  heaven  for  a  single 
drop  of  water  ! 

One  day  his  favorite  officer,  a  so-called  friend,  a  fawn- 
ing, cheap  fellow,  who  flattered  him  for  liis  millions, 
and  ate  generously  of  the  crumbs  from  his  bounty,  en- 
treated with  him  for  an  interview. 

The  interview  was  granted.  But  this  interview  was 
merely  for  the  purpose  of  requesting  an  interview  for  a 
third  party. 

Permission  was  kindly  granted,  although  he  felt  or 


THE   APPARITION".  1G9 

believed  that  this  third  party  was  no  friend.  He  feared 
him,  somehow.  He  knew  liim  to  be  a  large  and  gener- 
ous man,  a  great  man.  There  was  no  reason  he  should 
fear  him.  But  he  began  to  dread  and  to  fear  all  men. 
He  feared — ah  !  how  terribly  he  feared,  that  the  man 
with  the  scythe  might  come  back  from  Sable  Land. 

The  fawning  and  sycophantic  friend  was  in  great 
spirits.  He  had  been  making  monej'' ;  the  great  million- 
aire had  also  been  making  money.  The  sycophantic 
friend  was  full  of  wonder  that  the  millionaire  was  not  as 
light-hearted  and  as  happy  as  he.  Why,  the  millionaire 
liad  made  millions  of  money  in  the  last  few  months, 
enough  to  have  made  all  his  car-drivers  happy  and  saved 
their  children  from  shame  ;   why  was  he  not  glad  ? 

After  a  while  the  sycophantic  friend  turned  to  go.  At 
the  last  moment  he  turned  back  to  say  that  the  great 
man  who  had  desired  to  see  him  so  much  would  maybe 
come  direct  from  Sable  Land  ! 

The  great  hands  clutched.  The  lips  closed  tight  and 
turned  blue.  The  great  millionaire  was  not  learned  in 
classic  stories  ;  but,  somehow,  a  vague  memory  of  Brutus 
in  his  tent  on  the  eve  of  his  last  battle,  and  the  shadowy 
figure  there  was  before  his  eyes  all  the  time  as  he  went 
about  his  great  house. 

From  the  first  time  he  had  seen  the  strange  and  un- 
welcome guest  with  the  scythe  he  had  felt  that  the  shadow 
was  over  his  earthly  path  forever.  He  had  been  trying 
hard  to  open  his  hands.  The  force  of  habit  could  not 
easily  be  overcome.  He  had  hoped,  however,  to  yet  open 
his  hands  wide  open  before  the  shadowy  form  should 
come  again.  Little  merit  in  giving  is  there,  he  knew 
very  well,  after  you  are  forced  to  give.  When  death 
shakes  your  hands  loose  from  all  you  hold  on  earth  it  is 
death  that  gives,  not  you.     The  great  man  knew  this 


170  THE    DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

very  well ;  and  so  he  was  trying  hard,  so  hard,  to  open 
his  hands.  Do  not  blame  him  so  much  ;  but  pity  him 
greatly. 

The  man  was  coming  from  Sable  Land.  lie  tried 
to  shake  off  the  certain  feeling  tliat  this  man,  or  the 
shadow  of  this  man,  would  bear  a  scythe  on  his  shoulder. 
But  for  all  that  he  went  bravely  about  the  duties  and 
obligations  of  life  as  best  he  could.  There  were  some 
churches  to  be  looked  after.  He  went  about  this  gladly, 
generously.  Oh,  if  he  could  only  open  his  hands  wide, 
wide  open,  he  felt  that  it  would  be  better  for  him,  better 
for  the  world  ! 

There  were  some  people  who  wanted  autographs.  He 
gave  them  obligingly.  One  poor  bed-ridden  lady,  away 
off  in  a  distant  region,  received  an  autograph  that  made 
her  almost  rich.  Some  people  wanted  photographs. 
Surely,  the  man  had  some  friends  !  Some  people  wanted 
an  image  of  the  great  millionaire  in  marble  and  in  brass. 
He  was  also  obliging  in  this. 

And  then  the  hour  came  for  the  man  from  Sable 
Land. 

Cold  and  formally  he  came.  He  entered  the  splendid 
palace,  sat  down  in  the  gorgeous  office,  looked  strangely 
at  the  hard,  fixed  features  of  the  suffering  and  silent  man 
before  him,  and  wondered  at  his  misery. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  on  Sable  Land  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  sow  it  with  lire  ;  and  I  shall  harvest 
gold." 

And  as  the  visitor  spoke,  the  shadow  of  the  man  with 
the  scythe  rose  up  dimly  in  the  rear  of  where  he  sat  and 
came  still  more  near  to  the  great  man,  who  strained  his 
eyes  to  see. 

"  Sable  Land  was  my  home,  and  I  love  the  place. 
I  may  go  back  there  some  day." 


THE   APPARITION".  171 

Tlio  visitor  laid  a  map  between  them,  and  began  to 
point  out  tlio  place  where  he  should  plough  his  furrows 
of  fire. 

The  millionaire  leaned  forward.  The  visitor  leaned 
forward.  The  shadowy  figure  came  close  up  behind. 
The  shadowy  figure  with  the  scythe  leaned  forward, 
looked  over  the  visitor's  shoulder,  and  put  a  finger  down 
on  the  centre  of  the  map.  Tlie  finger  took  the  form  of 
an  hour-glass  ! 

The  millionaire  leaned  forward,  strained  his  eyes  to 
see,  fell  forward,  the  hands  fell  from  him.  The  great, 
heavy  hands,  so  full  of  gold,  rolled  off,  right  and'' left,' 
and  hung  down  at  his  side,  wide  open  ;  wide  open  and 
empty  for  the  first  time.  The  great  American  million- 
aire was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


THE    PUBLIC. 


Turn  back  to  tlie  great  dead  man,  sitting  with  head 
thrown  back  and  his  massiv^e,  heavy  hands  hanging  down 
on  either  side,  and,  to  the  amazement  of  the  world,  wide 
open. 

When  a  bnffalo,  the  noblest  native  beast  of  America, 
falls  dead  on  the  plains,  you  soon  begin  to  see  little  black 
specks  in  the  sky. 

At  first  these  little  black  specks,  away  up  in  the  deep 
blue  sky,  seem  no  larger  than  gnats. 

Then  they  grow  to  the  dimensions  of  bats,  and  are  cir- 
cling round  and  round  ;  descending  a  little  at  every 
circle  ;  growing  nearer  and  nearer,  larger  and  larger,  till 
you  can  at  last  see  their  long  necks  reaching  out  and 
looking  down,  down,  down  as  they  descend. 

These  are  buzzards.  And  too,  when  this  monarch  of 
the  plains  falls,  and  is  surely  dead,  securely  and  certainly 
dead,  there  comes  creeping  stealthily  over  the  hill,  his 
sharp  little  nose  sniffing  blood,  his  big  bushy  tail  between 
his  legs  and  trailing  on  the  ground  as  he  creeps  and 
sneaks  along,  the  dirty  little  prairie  wolf. 

This  little  sneaking  wolf,  this  natural  thief  of  the 
plains,  will  have  his  teeth  in  the  dead  beast's  hauncbes 
in  less  than  five  miutes,  while  the  buzzards  are  picking 
out  his  eyes. 

And  then  tlie  larger  wolves  come  :  a  long,  black  line, 
streaming  and  stringing  over  the  low  hills  through  the 


"the  public."  173 

long,  strong  grass,  their  red  tongues  out  and  tlicir  white 
teeth  ghstening,  sliurp  and  eager  for  tlieir  work. 

By  and  by  you  see  bugs,  loathsome,  l)uzzing  bugs, 
that  make  a  droning,  solemn  sound  as  they  go  by  your 
car  or  strike  you  full  in  the  face. 

They,  too,  will  have  a  share  of  the  dead  monarch,  and 
will  burrow  in  his  skin,  and  finally  roll  and  revel  and  rear 
their  young  in  the  offal  when  all  others  have  gone  away. 

And  this  is  the  pitiful  end  of  the  greatest  brute  of  the 
plains. 

Man's  estate,  if  there  is  nothing  of  him  but  the  brute, 
nothing  of  him  but  his  gold  and  great  strong-box,  is  uq 
better.     And  why,  indeed,  should  he  be  ? 

If  man,  endowed  by  his  Creator  with  all  the  better 
qualities,  will  permit  himself  to  sink  to  the  level  of  the 
brute,  and  live  only  for  the  animal  that  is  in  him,  his 
gold,  his  business,  and  his  lands,  he  should  not  complain 
at  all  if,  in  the  end,  he  and  all  that  is  his  are  torn  to 
pieces  and  divided  up  among  the  wolves,  the  buzzards, 
the  bugs,  the  vilest  following  on  this  earth. 

****** 

In  this  limited  portion  of  the  limitless  and  tremendous 
city  we  have  swept  on  rapidly,  too  rapidly  to  note  all  the 
important  events  which  have  an  important  bearing  on  the 
disposition  of  the  colossal  fortunes  so  suddenly  accumu- 
lated. 

One  little  act  out  of  which  came  great  calamity — if 
calamity  it  may  be  called — must  here  be  noted. 

The  two  inseparable  old  gentlemen  whom  we  encoun- 
tered in  the  early  pages  of  this  work,  hidden  away  in  tlie 
Custom  House,  were  neither  idle  men  nor  ignorant. 

But  they  were  in  exile,  as  it  were — banished  from  the 
heights  of  Murray  Hill  to  the  other  end  of  the  island. 
As  we  have  seen,  they  did  not  succeed  in  holding  on  to 


174  THE  DESTRUCTION   OP   GOTHAM. 

tlieir  very  lucrative  positions  in  tlie  great  Custom  House. 
Wall  Street  has  vanquished  them  ;  and  a  too-willing  dis- 
position to  lay  hands  on  the  public  purse,  in  order  to  keep 
their  heads  above  water,  had  forfeited  all  foothold  even 
here  ;  and  so  they  had  fallen  into  the  muck  and  mire  of 
the  lowest  round  of  politics. 

You  should  have  seen  these  two  worthies  in  the 
"  Palladium  of  Liberty,"  talking  face  to  face  and  famil- 
iarly with  thieves,  burglars,  aldermen.  They  were  con- 
spicuous even  as;  mourners  over  the  bodies  of  the  two 
illustrious  burglars  who  had  shot  each  other  to  death  in 
this  same  resort,  where  is  laid  the  first  round  in  the  not 
very  long  ladder  which  reaches  to  the  Presidency  of  these 
United  States. 

From  their  position  here  these  men  with  their  educa- 
tion, experience,  aristocratic  names,  and  early  associa- 
tions, guided  legislation  at  the  State  capital.  These  low 
haunts,  with  their  swarms  of  ignorant,  vicious,  and  grasp- 
ing legislators,  held  a  balance  of  power.  And  yet  it 
cannot  be  said  that  they  always  introduced  and  sup- 
ported vicious  measures. 

*  *  -5^  ^  *  -ifr 

A  bill  had  this  last  session  been  passed,  as  the  session 
drew  to  a  close,  with  the  avowed  purpose  of  breaking  up 
and  reforming  these  same  low  haunts. 

It  had  been  drawn  by  "Colonel"  Carrol.  It  was 
passed  through  and  made  a  law  by  the  rural  members, 
who  wished  to  catch  the  train  on  the  closing  evening  of 
the  session. 

This  law  declared  that  property  on  which  a  false  return 
to  the  tax  assessor  was  made  should  be  forfeited  to  the 
city.  It  had  been  urged  by  the  member  introducing  this 
bill  that  keepers  of  "  dives  "  and  "  dens  "  in  the  great 
city  not  only  refused  to  pay  taxes,  as  assessed,  but  per- 


''THE   PUBLIC."  1115 

sisted  in  giving  false  returns.  He  had  proclaimed  that 
a  forfeiture  of  the  property  here  was  most  just  ;  that  by 
this  means  these  "  dens"  and  "  dives  "  would  fall  into 
the  hands  of  the  city,  and  so  be  closed  up  and  the  atmos- 
phere purified. 

He  urged  that  the  only  way  to  bring  about  this  was  to 
make  the  informer  a  sharer  in  this  forfeiture,  and  that  a 
false  return  to  the  assessor  under  oath  should  work  a  for- 
feiture of  the  property  involved  ;  that  this  should  be 
shared  between  the  informant  and  the  city.  Ah  !  here 
was  to  be  a  great  and  a  good  reform.  It  would  break 
up  every  low  "den"  and  "dive"  in  the  lowest  and 
most  desperate  haunts  of  the  great  city. 

That  the  law  was  unconstitutional  was  of  little  conse- 
quence, since  so  great  a  reform  was  to  be  wrought.  And 
beside  that,  an  unconstitutional  law  was  no  new  thing  ! 

And  so,  in  the  name  of  reform,  the  bill  which 
"Colonel"  Carrol  and  his  inseparable  comrade  had 
drawn  in  the  "  Palladium  of  Liberty  "  down  among  the 
"  dives  "  was  laid  like  a  new-born  babe  to  sleep  for  a  day 
in  the  statute-book  and  wake  up  a  giant.  And  it  awoke 
suddenly  one  morning  when  all  the  lower  end  of  the 
great  city  was  wild — crazy  in  a  great  strike. 

"When  it  had  been  known  that  the  man  with  a  hundred 
millions  sat  dead  in  his  gold  and  leather  throne,  with 
his  two  hands  hanging  down,  wide  open  and  emj^ty, 
the  little  black  specks  in  the  sky  began  to  be  distinctly 
visible. 

And  then  the  little  prairie  wolves  began  to  appear  on 
the  scene,  and  reach  uut  their  long,  sharp  noses  and  sniff 
in  the  air. 

The  big  wolves,  too,  came  streaming  down  the  hills 
and  up  the  valleys  ;  and  befoi'e  the  body  was  cold  they 
were  lighting  over  it  in  the  grand  house  on  the  avenue, 


176  TKE   DESTKUCTlOif   OF   GOTUAM. 

with  all  its  gorgeous  cinbellishments,  as  wolves  of  the 
plains  fight  over  the  fallen  buffalo. 

The  poor,  dead  body,  with  the  large,  empty,  heavy 
hands  now  closed  and  folded  forever,  holding  nothing 
but  dust  forever,  had  been  laid  away  in  a  great  granite 
tomb,  while  the  black  wolves,  the  heirs,  glared  at  each 
other.  They  had  gone  back  from  the  door  of  the  tomb 
growling  at  each  other  and  showing  their  sharp  teeth. 

They  rushed  together  to  the  great,  empty  palace  of 
gold,  and  seized  upon  this  thing  and  that,  as  the  wolves 
of  the  prairie  seize  upon  tliis  and  that  part  of  the  fallen 
beast. 

And  how  could  the  great  dead  man  have  expected 
anything  else  ?  They  were  only  following  his  example  ; 
walking  in  his  footsteps.  He  had  done  this  same  thing 
before  over  his  own  inheritance  !  He  had  fought 
brother  and  sister  also,  even  to  the  death. 

Bigger  wolves  of  a  baser  kind  ;  that  was  all  !  And 
finally,  when  the  strife  was  high  and  hot  and  fierce  ; 
when  the  press  and  the  whole  land  was  filled  with  this 
strife  and  struggle  for  the  dead  man's  gold  ;  when  the 
courts  were  choked  in  the  administration  of  justice,  and 
all  things  stood  still  from  the  very  magnitude  of  this 
corpse  that  had  fallen  down  in  the  road,  and  lay  here  in 
the  way — when  these  wolves  lay  exhausted  and  glaring  at 
each  other,  the  voice  of  "  Colonel"  Carrol,  the  exile, 
was  heard  from  the  "  Palladium  of  Liberty,"  firing  the 
hearts  of  the  hungry  railroad  employes,  car-hands,  drivers, 
and  freight-hands  against  the  claimants  of  this  colossal 
wealth.  The  new-born  babe  that  had  been  hastily  laid 
to  sleep  on  the  statute-books  had  suddenly  wakened  up 
a  full-grown  giant. 

It  had  been  developed  somewhere  in  the  dozen  trials, 
the  criminations  and  the  recriminations,  and  on  the  in- 


*'TIIE   PUBLIC."  177 

formation  oi  "  Colonel  "  Carrol  and  his  thousand  and 
one  desperate  and  starving  followers  that  false  returns 
had  been  persistently  indulged  in  by -the  great  million- 
aire. 

By  this  same  law,  passed  for  the  poor  and  for  the  an- 
nihilation of  the  low  haunts,  tlio  rich  man,  in  the  most 
aristocratic  part  of  the  city,  had  forfeited  his  houses. 

'*  Colonel  "  Carrol  proclaimed  to  all  he  had  forfeited 
his  lands,  his  houses,  his  millions  to  the  city  and  the 
thousand  and  one  destitute  and  desperate  men  in  the 
low  walks  of  the  great  commercial  capital  of  the  world  ! 
This  is  what  he  urged  at  the  "  Palladium  of  Liberty." 

The  absurdity  of  the  claim,  the  illegality  of  it,  made  no 
difference.     It  was  a  claim. 

The  very  illegality  of  it,  indeed,  made  the  desperate 
claimants  more  desperate,  more  determined. 

It  was  little  use  that  the  heirs — the  wolves — now  for- 
got their  battle,  put  their  backs  and  shoulders  together, 
and  faced  and  fought  the  mob — the  people,  the  public. 

These  desperate  men  were  not  to  be  put  off.  Here 
was  a  law  which  they  said  the  poor  had  received  from 
the  rich.  Let  it  be  applied  alike  to  all.  They  would 
brook  no  delay.     No  courts  !  no  appeals  to  higher  courts  ! 

The  law  was  plain  !  Let  it  be  enforced  !  By  the  en- 
forcement of  this  law  the  other  end  would  have  the 
wealth  of  the  city  ! 

Do  you  suppose  that  the  other  end  of  the  city,  the 
ignorant  million  there  outnumbering  tenfold  the  upper 
end  of  the  town,  was  to  be  put  off  with  any  promise  or 
any  appeals  ? 

You  do  not  know  the  public,  the  people,  if  you  think 
that.  Why,  every  one  of  these  poor  had  in  some  sense 
helped  heap  up  this  hundred  million  for  this  one  man, 
who  all  this  time  paid  little  taxes — almost  nothing. 


178  THE   DESTKUCTlOX   01<'   GOTHAM. 

And  they  were  going  now,  since  the  heirs  hud  fought 
so  savagely  over  it,  to  light  also  over  it,  or  have  some- 
thing of  it  back.  The  strike  for  higher  wages  ana  for 
work  had  nnited  them  solidly.  And  these  poor  and 
ignorant  and  overworked  people  were  now  right  willing 
to  reach  out  their  hands  at  a  minute's  notice. 

The  people  had  endured  much.  These  people,  many 
of  them — and  you  cannot  stop  at  a  time  like  this  to  sepa- 
rate the  deserving  people  from  the  undeserving  people- 
had  endured  persecutions,  insults — everything. 

They  had  begged  for  better  pay,  for  fewer  hours. 
They  had  seen  their  little  children  die  in  the  long,  hard, 
and  perfectly  well-ordered  and  regular  strike,  while  they 
stood  by  with  tied  hands  and  helpless,  because  of  the 
millionaire's  brutality,  false  promises,  false  oaths — aye, 
the  false  oaths  of  the  mighty  milhonaire  whose  property 
they  now  claimed  was  in  a  measure  forfeited  to  them. 

Do  you  suppose  their  hands  were  to  be  stayed  now  ? 
Why,  many  of  them  had  been  waiting  for  years  for  even 
the  slightest  excuse  to  lay  hand  upon  the  least  part  of 
this  iieaped-up  hundred  millions. 

A  thousand  men  marched  to  the  splendid  mansion, 
burst  open  the  massive  doors,  and  hungry  hands  tore 
down  tapestries  and  canopies,  massive  and  weighty  with 
gold.  And  the  pubhc,  the  police,  stood  by  powerless, 
consenting,  abetting. 

The  nails  of  gold,  and  the  bars  of  gold,  and  the  rings 
of  irold  that  held  the  curtains  or  bound  the  furniture  or 
starred  the  thrones  of  leather  and  gold,  they  melted  away 
hke  fairy  frost-work  before  the  rising  sun. 

Old  Irish  beggar-women  wrapped  the  costliest  canopies 
around  their  frail  and  emaciated  forms,  and  glided  like 
y-liosts  down  the  back  streets  to  their  reeking  haunts. 

A  laborer  bore  on  his  shoulders  a  massive  pitcher  of 


"TUB    PUBLIC."  l'J'9 

solid  gold  ;  his  wife  bore  a  leather  ottoman  studded  with 
nails  of  gold,  and,  uninterrupted,  they  leisurely  led  their 
child  between  them  down  the  avenue  that  afternoon. 

And  no  man  raised  a  hand.  Do  not  be  surprised.  The 
wrong,  the  long  and  persistent  wrong  had  been  none  the 
less  keenly  felt  because  endured  in  silence. 

The  whole  people  were  with  the  people.  The  jiublic 
was  with  the  public. 

-X-  *  *  *  *  * 

The  first  three  words  of  the  Constitution  of  these 
United  States  are  to-day  the  most  potent,  just,  sacred 
words  outside  of  Holy  Writ. 

They  are  the  foundation  and  the  corner-stone  of  the 
country.  Of  old  time  it  was  written  that  the  king  can 
do  no  wrong.  Here  we  have  changed  it  the  least  bit. 
Here  the  people  are  the  king.  It  now  reads  thus  :  The 
people  can  do  no  wrong. 

"  The  people"  had  done  this  pilfering  ;  scattered  this 
wealth  to  the  four  winds.  "  We,  the  people,"  had  done 
this  as  a  part  of  one  of  their  well-ordered  strikes.  And 
"we,  the  people,"  can  do  no  wrong.  Read  these  first 
three  words  of  the  Constitution  of  these  United  States, 
and  understand  them  well ;  for  on  these  hang  all  the  law 
and  the  prophets. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


TWILIGHT   STUDIES. 


There  is  surely  some  sort  of  compensation  in  all 
things.  Once  when  camped  on  the  plains — the  night 
was  cold  and  clear — our  camp-fire  died  out,  and  we 
began  to  suffer  greatly  from  the  cold. 

But  suddenly  some  one  looked  up,  saw  the  stars,  and 
we  forgot  the  misery  of  earth  in  contemplating  the  glory 
of  the  heavens. 

One  thing  more  :  we  have  many  duties  in  this  hfe, 
not  many  rights. 

When  you  hear  any  one  talk  continually  of  his  rights, 
you  may  be  sure  he  is  very  forgetful  of  his  duties. 

The  real  text  is,  do  your  duty,  and  your  rights  will  take 
care  of  themselves. 

You  need  never  fight  for  your  rights,  if  you  first  look 
to  your  duties. 

No  one  with  spirit  ought  to  ask  to  eat  his  bread  before 
he  earns  it. 

■Jfr  -Jfr  -Sf  *  *  ^ 

These  thoughts  may  have  been  taken  from  Walton's 
journal  ;  for  he,  too,  had  tried  the  mines,  the  mountains, 
many  enterprises  and  plans  in  his  youth,  and  now,  in  his 
middle-age,  picked  out  these  precepts  to  lean  upon  from 
his  experience  ;  for  he  had  little  else,  poor  fellow  !  to 
lean  upon  now. 

The  camp-fire  of  his  love  upon  earth  was  dying  out — 


TWILI(51IT   STUDIES.  181 

was  indeed  dead.  He  tried  hard  to  lift  his  face  to  a 
higher  hght.  It  was  very  liard  to  keep  it  Hfted  tliere. 
His  success  was  but  indifferent  in  teaching  himself  to 
obey  In's  own  precepts  and  teachings. 

lie  tried  to  do  his  duty,  and  so  tried  to  forget  his 
rights  ;  for  really  there  are  but  two  classes  on  this 
earth  :  one  that  thinks  only  of  duties,  the  otlier  tliat 
thinks  only  of  rights. 

And  of  the  two  classes  no  wise  person  can  hesitate  to 
clioose  between,  for  friends,  for  lovers,  for  cultivated  and 
capable  souls  of  any  kind  worth  keeping  sacred  in  the 
heart. 

This  man's  life,  like  that  of  nearly  all  the  toilers  of 
the  great  city,  lay  far  down-town.  His  work  was  there 
from  tlie  first.  But  now  that  she  was  passing  out  of  his 
life  entirely,  to  be  happy  with  another,  he  somehow  did 
not  seem  to  care  for  Murray  Hill  so  much. 

Hundreds  of  thousands  of  good  people  lived  away 
down  there  in  the  din  and  the  darkness  of  the  narrow 
streets.     Wliy  not  he  ? 

Of  course  you  understand  that  people  who  have  met 
in  society  and  subsequently  meet  outside  of  society  do 
not  presume  on  any  old  relations  at  all  ;  but  they  begin 
all  over  again.  Pei'haps  more  equitably  than  is  the  con- 
verse of  these  sentiments  : 

"  Wliat  !  you  here,  Brown  !"  is  no  longer  a  permis- 
sible expression  of  surprise  when  Smith,  the  butclier, 
meets  Brown,  the  baker,  on  Murray  Hill.  They  may 
vaguely  recognize  each  other  as  having  possibly  met  in 
their  travels  a])road  last  year,  and  Brown,  in  his  surprise 
at  seeing  Smith  there,  may  mention  in  a  loud  and  con- 
fidential whisper  to  the  hostess  that  he  knew  him  when 
he  wore  a  long  apron  with  ])lood  running  down  it,  and 
Smith  may  return  the  compliment  in  kind  ;  but  no  well- 


]82  THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

bred  butcher,  or  baker,  or  candlestick-maker  is  permitted 
to  carry  the  smell  of  tlie  shop  up  the  high  steps  of  the 
brown-stone  fronts  on  Fifth  Avenue  now  as  a  rule. 

One  day  "Walton  said  to  a  fellow-scribe,  after  he  had 
seen  Stone  shivering  along  the  street  after  he  had  lost  all 
his  money  in  speculation  :  "  Look  here  ;  1  can  prove  to 
you  that  there  is  a  God,  and  a  just  and  generous  God, 
too." 

"How?"  said  the  fellow-scribe,  looking  up  from 
under  the  sharp  gas-jet  which  shot  out  from  the  wall  like 
a  lance  at  his  head. 

"  Two  great  men  robbed  a  great  country,  and  so  had 
great  wealth." 

"Well?" 

"  Then  one  of  these  great  men  robbed  the  other  to 
some  extent,  and  so  one  was  very,  very  poor,  and  one 
was  very,  very  rich." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  Then  God  put  out  His  hand,  struck  the  rich  one 
dead,  and  so  left  the  destitute  one — who  has  nothing  to 
live  for — creeping  along  yonder  like  a  shadow,  shivering 
in  the  frosty  twilight." 

The  fellow-scribe  put  the  blunt  end  of  his  pencil  in  his 
mouth,  bit  at  it  a  time  or  two,  hit  his  heels  on  the  rung 
of  the  stool  on  which  he  sat,  and  then,  nodding  thought- 
ful ly  to  his  friend,  went  on  with  his  work. 

*  *  *  -X-  *  * 

The  death  of  the  very  rich  man  may  have  given  a 
temporary  pleasure  to  the  little  brown  and  leathery  creat- 
ure who  had  so  long  been  his  rival  and  stood  so  lono^ 
next  in  importance  in  the  eyes  of  the  great,  greedy,  and 
money-getting  city  ;  but  the  reaction  and  second  sober 
thought  left  him  even  more  cold  and  shivery  and  dismal 
than  ever  before.     "  What  is  the  matter  with  Stone  ?" 


TWILKJIIT   STUDIES.  183 

Tliis  was  a  question  heard  many  times  and  in  all  places. 
Was  he  afraid  that  the  mob  that  had  sacked  the  million- 
aire's house  would  pay  its  respects  to  him  also  !  Or  did 
he  really  have  the  shrewdness  to  see  above  all  the  mut- 
terings  of  the  people  something  of  the  ruin  that  was  in 
the  air  ? 

For  the  people  were  not  only  desperate,  but  really  des- 
titute, notwithstanding  their  recent  spoils.  But,  for 
whatever  reason.  Stone  went  about  as  cold,  as  silent,  as 
soulless  as  a  corpse. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Stone  ?" 

A  young  man  holding  on  to  the  tape  and  watching  to 
see  if  "Waliash,  which  liad  tumbled  from  95  to  5,  would 
really  tumble  down  to  the  capacity  of  his  pocket,  looked 
up. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Stone  ?"  I  said. 

''Budge." 

The  other  looked  at  him,  and  then  quaffed  a  glass  in 
pantomime.  And  the  man  Avith  the  ta])e  in  hand  merely 
nodded  and  continued  his  quotation  from  Shakespeare  : 

"  The  fiend  says  Budge  ;  but  conscience  says  Budge 
not." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


WE,    THE    PEOPLE. 


It  would  have  astonished  the  dead  man,  conld  he 
have  returned,  or  by  any  means  rolled  away  the  great 
stone  that  shut  him  in  his  massive  granite  tomb,  to 
see  how  easily  all  his  work  and  all  his  wealth  had  melted 
away. 

It  even  would  have  disgusted  him  to  see  how  easy,  to 
see  how  unconcerned  the  whole  world  was  while  his  pict- 
ures, his  carpets,  his  thousand  costly  things  were  being 
trampled  under  foot  that  day  by  a  savage,  industrious, 
hungry,  but  rather  well-behaved  mob. 

It  was,  perhaps,  due  to  the  great  millionaire's  memory 
that  some  arrests  should  have  been  made,  some  attempt 
at  restitution. 

If  so,  the  great  dead  millionaire's  memory  did  not  in 
this  case  receive  its  dues. 

"  How  poor  he  was  !"  said  Walton,  sharpening  his 
pencil. 

"  Poor  ?"  queried  a  young  scribe  up  under  the  gas-jet 
in  the  garret,  as  they  two  together  were  quietly  writing 
the  chronicles  of  the  pillage. 

"Poor?" 

"  Yes,  poor," 

''How  so?" 

"  Why,  he  had  nothing  in  the  world  but  wealth,  had 
he?" 


"WE,    THE    PEOPLE."  185 

The  yonng  scrihc  looked  at  liis  companion  a  moment, 
and  understood. 

****** 

Tlie  pencils  drove  on  swiftly  over  the  brief  clironicle 
of  the  great  man's  life  and  death,  and  the  destruction  of 
his  estate.  The  reporters  of  the  press  had  dined  com- 
fortably, thankfully,  on  thirty-five  or  fifty  cents  each, 
such  of  them  as  had  dined.  Some  of  them  had  not  dined 
at  all.  But  you  may  piit  it  upon  record  that  little,  if 
any,  injustice  was  done  to  the  dead. 

Nay,  more,  you  may  say  that  the  search  for  good 
deeds  to  set  down  in  his  behalf  was  none  the  less  zealous 
because  ineffectual. 

True,  many  spcculnted  as  to  what  they  would  have 
done  with  a  little  of  the  dead  man's  gold,  and  it  is  safe 
guessing  to  say  that  few  would  not  have  acted  more 
justly  and  wisely  with  it  than  did  the  man  who  always 
and  uj)  to  the  last  desperate  gasp  clutched  so  tightly  to 
everything  that  his  hands  closed  upon. 

"  I  should  have  built  a  city,"  said  Walton,  biting  the 
dull  end  of  his  pencil,  and  trying  to  look  the  glaring  gas- 
jet  in  the  eye,  when  he  had  finished. 

"  Built  a  city  !  We  have  too  many  now.  1  hate 
them,  and  am  going  out  on  the  plains  to  join  your  part- 
ner in  his  persistent  demands  on  you  for  revenue," 
laughed  his  companion,  as  he  lifted  his  face  and  looked 
away  out  and  away  to  rest  his  tired  eyes. 

"  Just  where  I  should  have  built  my  city,"  said  Wal- 
ton ;  "  and  it  would  have  been  a  city  that  is  a  city,  not 
this  kind.  Why,  I  should  have  gone  into  the  heart  of  a 
desert,  bored  into  the  eartli  for  water,  flooded  all  the 
parched  alkali  country  for  fifty  miles  around,  with  little 
cost  or  trouble  ;  planted  trees,  grass,  gardcTis  ;  had  my 
city  in  the  centre,  with  its  one  good  church,  its  one  great 


IfcG  THE  DESTBUCTION   OF  GOTHAM. 

newspaper,  its  one  great  hotel,  its  one  great  railroad 
depot,  its  one  great  store,  its  one  great  theatre,  and — 
and—" 

"  And  been  its  one  great  millionaire  and  tyrant," 
cried  his  companion. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and,  laughing  feebly,  fell 
to  thinking  each  for  himself,  and  half  pitifully  of  the 
weakness  and  heljjlessness  of  human  nature. 

And  away  down  in  his  heart  each  began  to  wonder  if 
he  was  not  a  worse  man  in  his  boasted  pride  of  poverty, 
a  worse  man  by  a  great  deal  than  the  dead  millionaire 
whom  he  had  so  long  affected  to  despise. 

"Walton  was  trying  hard  to  be  unselfish.  He  arose,  and 
going  to  the  window  to  look  out  into  the  cold  and  frost, 
and  rest  his  weary  eyes  a  little,  he  looked  away  across  to 
a  dim  light,  where,  in  the  tower  of  the  tenement-honse, 
he  knew  a  little  tobacco  girl  was  toiling  on,  and  had 
toiled  on  through  all  this  outbreak  of  the  mob,  scarcely 
hearing  about  it  at  all. 

He  resolved  in  his  heart  he  must  see  Dottie,  now  that 
the  tumult  was  over,  and  soon.  He  had  not  seen  her 
for  days  and  days.  And  indeed  when  he  saw  her  last, 
or  rather  heard  her,  for  she  would  not  come  to  the  door 
or  leave  her  work  back  in  the  corner  now  where  she  was 
toiling  so  steadily,  she  seemed  not  at  all  strong. 

Even  the  light  looked  feeble  now,  he  thought. 

Resolving  firmly  in  his  heart  to  see  her  and  the  little 
Dollie,  who  always  met  him  at  the  door,  he  turned  back 
to  his  companion,  and  went  on  witli  the  desultory  con- 
versation in  a  more  moderate  and  conciliatory  tone. 

"  The  city  I  would  build,"  he  said,  "  would  not  be  a 
city  of  trade  or  business  at  all.  We  would  all  work  there, 
till  the  soil  in  the  new  fields,  have  no  salaried  ofiicers,  no 
paid  police,  nobody  working  for  pay,  all  working  for  the 


"WE,    THE    PEOPLE."  IS? 

good  of  Ills  fellows.  Two  liours  a  flay  would  do  it  ;  two 
hours'  work  a  day  all  around,  my  dear  l)oy,  would  keep 
us  all  like  kings.  Oh,  for  a  city  like  that,  my  boy  ! 
"Where  and  when  will  we  ever  see  a  city  like  that  ?" 

His  companion  smiled  quietly,  did  not  speak,  but,  after 
looking  in  Walton's  face  for  a  moment,  lifted  his  eyes 
heavenward. 

Then  they  both  lauglied  lieartily,  and,  dropping  the 
dead  man  and  all  his  money,  went  on  with  tlieir  work. 

As  you  may  have  inferred  from  the  character  of  the 
man,  Hattie  Lane  was  not  left  a  fortune  at  all,  not  a 
cent.  But  the  friendsliip  and  the  favor  of  the  million- 
aire toward  the  man  it  was  supposed  she  would  marry  in 
the  end  had  made  Matherson  prodigiously  wealthy,  and 
a  man  of  boundless  influence  in  the  great  American  city. 
And  this  may  have  been  tlie  way  in  which  the  dead  man 
chose  to  enrich  the  dependent  child  of  his  old  friend. 

Day  by  day,  as  said  before,  steadily,  year  by  year  and 
month  by  month,  "Walton  had  seen  her  fading  out  of  his 
life,  as  a  star  passes  out  of  siglit  when  tlie  clouds  gather. 

Many  a  time  he  had  thought  her  gone  entirely  from 
his  horizon  and  gaze  ;  thought  he  had  forgotten  her  ;  as 
he  lioped  and  tried — prayed,  to  forget  her.  Ihit,  then, 
fate  would  throw  them  together  again,  their  streams  of 
life  would  flow  on,  and  in  the  couree  of  his  work  he 
would  be  brought  full  in  sight  of  that  calm  and  splendid 
face  of  hers,  and  then  down  on  his  knees — to  use  a  flgure 
of  speech — he  would  fall  helplessly  before  her,  and  be 
all  broken  to  pieces  again  for  days  and  days  together. 

Man  is  not  put  together  solidly.  The  light  of  a 
woman's  eye,  if  he  loves  her  truly,  can  melt  him  all 
through,  as  if  he  were  put  together  with  wax. 

Still  Walton  had  long  aiul  hourly  devoted  himself  to 
the  duty  of  forgetting  to  love  this  woman.     It  was  clearly 


188  THE    DESTRUCTION    OF   GOTHAM. 

liis  duty  to  forgot  her  ;  not  a  duty  to  liimself,  but  to 
lier.  Had  it  been  a  duty  to  In'mself,  he  had,  no  doubt, 
long  since  abandoned  it.  As  it  was,  he  was  bravely  try- 
ing, and  with  not  very  certain  success,  to  perform  that 
duty  which  he  owed  to  the  woman  he  loved  truly  and 
well. 

There  arc  men  in  this  world  w^ho  have  but  two  sources 
of  delight,  and  very  doubtful  delights  they  are  at  best. 
One  of  these  is  the  elevation  of  themselves,  and  the  other 
is  the  downfall  of  others. 

Capital  is  a  snail  that  shuts  up  tightly  in  its  house,  and 
will  be  trodden  all  to  pieces  at  the  least  sign  of  alarm, 
rather  than,  put  out  its  horns  to  help  itself. 

*  ^f  *  *  *  * 

These  were  in  substance  the  last  sentiments  which  the 
reporter  wrote  that  night  before  throwing  down  his  pencil 
and  climbing  to  the  dim  light  in  the  top  of  the  tenement. 

It  was  much  to  lift  his  face  to  the  high,  dim  light  away 
up  there,  and  know  that  little  Dollie  was  waiting  for  him 
at  the  toothless  old  door  ;  and  he  was  very  eager  to  climb 
up  to  the  top  and  receive  his  welcome. 

Better  is  a  hearty  welcome  from  the  poorest  dog  than 
a  doubtful  reception  from  a  king  in  purple. 

When  there  is  no  one  waiting  to  welcome  us  in  this 
world  any  more,  then  it  is  time  to  die. 

Walton  had  grown  old  in  honest  toil,  and  yet  he  had 
no  one  in  all  this  world  waiting  for  him  but  a  little  waif, 
and  the  toiling,  sickly  mother  back  in  the  corner,  whom 
he  had  befriended  up  hi  the  park  long  before.  And  he 
could  not  afford  to  despise  this  now  in  his  loneliness  and 
desolation  of  heart. 

It  might  have  been  a  fancy,  but,  soinchow,  he  kept 
constantly  associating  the  feeblenessof  that  light  up  there 
with  Dottie's  own  life. 


"WE,    THE    PEOPLE."  189 

Was  she,  too,  growing  faint  and  feeble  as  was  the  light 
away  up  there  'i  Were  they  dying  out  together  i  And 
the  baby  ?  What  if  the  mother  should  die  alone  up  there 
in  the  cold  among  the  rats  in  the  musty  and  moulding 
tobacco  ?  What  would  become  of  the  child  so  alone  up 
there  then  ? 


CnAPTER  XXII. 


VEKY    TIRED. 


As  before  said,  "Walton  had  never  entered  the  httle 
tobacco  girl's  room  on  the  top  floor  after  that  first  time 
when  the  pale,  thin  girl  had  gone  away  to  never  come 
back  any  more. 

He  would  call  at  the  door,  say  a  few  cheery  words  to 
Dottie  as  she  plied  her  lingers  and  bent  above  her  work 
back  by  the  window,  and  would  not  stay  long. 

He  had  so  little  time  to  stay  !  And,  then,  one  gets 
very  tired  in  these  dismal  parts  of  the  city — so  tired  in 
body  and  in  soul  ! — and  if  you  do  not  sit  down  you  can- 
not stay,  even  if  you  desire  to. 

There  is  a  haunting  desire  to  pass  on,  however  good 
and  sympathetic  you  may  be  ;  and  you  do  pass  on,  at  any 
reasonable  excuse. 

Walton,  now  that  he  was  on  his  way  there,  felt  that  he 
had  been  negligent,  too,  in  his  calls  of  late.  At  first  it 
was  every  day,  and  at  a  certain  hour,  too  ;  and  he  al- 
ways had  fruit,  cool  and  juicy  and  fresh  from  the  coun- 
try, not  stale  and  thumbed  and  withered  fruit  that  had 
been  passed  and  passed  from  hand  to  hand  till  it  had 
neither  flavor  nor  freshness,  but  real,  genuine,  juicy  fruit 
that  spoke  of  the  country,  the  birds,  and  the  trees.  As 
poor  little  Dottie  used  to  call  out  from  her  corner  back 
by  the  window  when  the  child  ran  to  her  with  the  paper, 
it  was  "  fruit  that  was  fruit." 

But  the  terrors  of  the  time,  the  strike,  the  mob,  the 


VKIIY    TIUED.  191 

destruction  of  tlio  ^ruat  Lrown-stonc  palace — tliese  liad 
kept  liini  away. 

The  visits  had  long  since  grown  far  apart  and  irregular. 
On  this  last  occasion  he  had  been  absent  nearly  a  week. 

The  man  reproached  himself  bitterly  when  he  re- 
membered his  cruel  neglect.  He  sprang  up  from  his 
%vork,  ran  down  the  dark,  paper-strewn  and  ink -stained 
stairway  which  wound  up  to  where  the  red  gas-jet  shot 
like  lances  into  your  eyes  from  the  wall,  and  hastened  to 
the  lonely  little  girl  who  for  months,  in  her  terror  and 
shame  and  dread  of  being  pursued  or  punished,  had  seen 
no  stranger's  face  but  his. 

The  fruit  was  not  forgotten  this  time,  although  the 
man  was  still,  as  usual,  very  poor.  The  partner  in 
the  mines  was  still  about  to  "  strike  it,"  and  so  was  still 
pleading  glorious  prospects  for  his  exactions. 

lie  pushed  open  the  door  with  neither  lock  nor  key  at 
the  top.  It  creaked  and  cried  out,  and  seemed  to  mock 
and  reproach  him.  No  one  sat  back  between  him  and 
the  light  near  the  window. 

The  man  started  with  alarm.  He  pressed  the  door 
wide  open,  ruthlessly  entered,  and  took  two  or  three 
steps  forward  and  a  little  to  the  left,  in  the  direction  of 
a  small  screen  which  had  been  fashioned  there  on  two 
iron  hooks,  out  of  a  piece  of  coarse  bale-cloth. 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Walton." 

"  What  !  Dottie,  are  you  ill  ?" 

"  ]N"o,  no  ;  I'm  not  ill ;  but  I'm  so  tired  !" 

The  voice  was  strange  and  weary  and  far  away.  It 
was  as  if  one  spoke  from  away  down  in  a  deep  well. 
The  child  lay  asleep  in  her  arms  at  her  side.  The  girl 
explained  as  the  num  stood  over  her  that  Dollie  had  been 
sitting  up  with  her  the  last  two  nights,  bringing  water 
and  watching  with  her,  and  so  was  all  worn  out. 


103  THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTUAM. 

"  And  then,  Mr.  "Walton,  and  then  you  know  she — 
she  has  to — to — " 

' '  She  has  to  what,  Dottie  ?  You  seem  so  frightened. 
Tell  me  what  it  is,  girl  ?" 

"  Why — why,  it's  nothing  much,  if  I  was  only  well. 
But  I've  been  so  frightened,  and  she  has  been  so  fright- 
ened. And  they  are  so  large  and  hungry,  too.  At  first 
we  fed  them,  and  then  they  were  not  so  bold  ;  but  it 
only  made  more  come,  and  now — " 

"  Dottie  !  Dottie  !  what  is  it  ?     What  are  they  V^ 

"  Look  there — back  there  in  the  corner  by  the  door  ! 
And  see,  there  is  another  one  !  Oh,  1  know  some  time 
they  will  eat  us  iip  !  You  see,  I  put  tobacco-stems  here, 
around  Dollie's  side  of  the  bed.  That  will  keep  them 
from  eating  her  first.  And  then  the  tobacco  makes  it  a 
little  softer.  Yes,  it  made  her  sick  at  first ;  but  she 
stood  it  all,  poor  thing,  for  she  was  so  afraid  of  them. 
And  then  1  put  a  lot  of  the  stems  at  our  feet,  too.  But 
oh,  I  know — I  know  they  will  bite  our  feet  and  our  faces 
when — when — ' ' 

"  Dottie,  it's  the  old  foolish  fear.  Now  be  calm. 
Rats  don't  bite  people,  not  live  people,  I  reckon." 

"  But — but  they  do  dead  people,  Mr.  Walton." 

*'  Well,  you  are  not  dead,  Dottie." 

**  No,  I  am  not  dead  ;  but — but  I'm  so — so  tired  and 
— and — and — ' ' 

She  stopped  a  moment,  for  she  spoke  with  great  effort. 
The  man  stamped  and  made  a  shuffling  noise  with  his 
foot  to  drive  away  the  rats  that  were  already  coming 
from  many  directions,  reaching  their  noses,  their  necks, 
smelling  for  the  savory  bag  of  fruit  he  had  set  down  on 
the  little  table.  The  girl  arose  on  her  elbow,  and,  tak- 
ing great  care  not  to  disturb  the  sleeping  child,  felt 
under  the  bag  of  rags  which  she  had  fashioned  into  a 


VERY  TIRED.  193 

pillow,  and  drew  forth  a  little  package.  She  laid  this  into 
the  man's  hand,  with  a  smile  on  her  pale,  pitiful  face 
that  made  her  once  more  seem  radiant  and  beautiful. 
The  old  sparkle  and  splendor  of  her  wonderful  eyes 
illumined  them  for  an  instant,  and  she  was  as  one  who 
enjoys  for  a  little  time  some  great  triumph. 

"I've  not  got  on  well  in  the  great  city,  Mr.  Walton. 
And  I've  been  some  trouble  to  you.  Eut  I  tried  hard  ; 
I  did  my  best.  And  I've  been  living  here,  thinking  it 
over  and  over  and  over,  and  at  last  it  seems  to  me  that 
when  one  does  their  best  that — that — that  is  all." 

"  But  what  is  this?" 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  Money,  silver.  I  made  them 
pay  me  in  silver,  so  that  the  rats  would  not  carry  it  off. 
Oh,  these  queer  rats  !  They  don't  care  a  cent  for  silver 
nor  tobacco.  But,  oh — oh,  I  know  they  will  eat  me 
yet  !  And  so  I  want  you  to  take  that  money  and  get 
me — get  me — " 

"Get  you  what,  Dottie  ?" 

"  "Why,  you  see,  I  don't  want  to  be  left  here  when 
I'm  dead." 

"Dottie!  Dottie!  you  will  wake  Dollie  if  you  tremble 
and  shudder  so.     You  are  not  going  to  die." 

"You  think  not,  Mr.  Walton?  Well,  I'm  so  glad! 
You  were  always  wise  and  cool  in  your  head." 

"  Now,  Dottie,  child,  do  lie  down.  You  don't  doubt 
what  I  say  ?" 

"No,  no;  but  I — I  want  to  say  something  before 
Dollie  wakes ;  for  oh,  she  is  so  old  now  !  Why,  she 
knows  everything,  and  she  understands  everything.  She 
hiis  grown  old — old — old — sitting  here  and  waitings 
waiting  for — for — " 

"For  what,  Dottie?" 

"Death  !" 


194  THE   DESTRUCTION   OP  GOTHAM. 

The  girl  said  this  in  tlie  faint,  far-away  voice  wliicli 
had  so  startled  the  man  when  lie  first  came  in. 

Iler  face  was  to  the  wall.  Then  she  went  on,  calmly  : 
"  And  I  want  you  to  take  the  money  and  keep  it ;  and 
when — when  it's  all  over,  don't  let  me  lie  here.  Oh, 
take  me  out  of  this  at  once,  right  otf  ;  and  don't  let 
them  that  took  her  on  that  black  boat  in  the  pale,  red 
coffin — don't  let  them  take  me  that  way,  as  they  did 
her!" 

"  Dottie,  Dottie  !  please  don't  talk  so." 

"  And  one  thing  more.  Do  you  think,  Mr.  Walton 
— do  you  mind  doing  it,  Mr.  Walton  ?" 

"What,  Dottie?" 

"  Why,  taking  her  to  him,  to — to —  Oh,  I  canH  tell 
you  !  But  yet  I  must — I  must  !  Well,  there  is  a  man 
who  wants  her,  because— because  she  is  good  and  beauti- 
ful and  true  and  pure  and  holy.  Oh,  my  little  baby, 
Dollie,  Dollie,  Dollie  !  How  good  and  kind  and  patient 
and  loving  you  have  been  to  me  !" 

For  the  first  time  the  girl  burst  into  tears.  This  was 
her  one  thought  now  :  What  should  she  do  with  little 
Dollie  now,  as  she  was  going  to  leave  her  and  go  out 
over  the  river  of  everlasting  dreams  ?  She  hid  her  face 
down  by  the  baby's  face,  and  sobbed  and  sobbed,  and 
drew  up  her  thin,  bony  shoulders  and  sobbed  again  and 
again,  as  if  her  heart  would  break  and  she  should  never 
be  able  to  lift  up  her  head  or  speak  to  the  man  any  more. 

lie,  too,  was  speechless  now.  Tears  were  sti'eaming 
down  the  deep  furrows  of  his  rugged  face. 

At  last  she  was  very  still. 

All  in  the  dismal  room,  this  place  where  she  was  to 
receive  the  King  of  Terrors,  was  now  so  deathly  still 
that  the  rats  again  made  bold  to  sally  out  and  attempt  to 
climb  the  table. 


vehy  TiiiTin.  105 

You  could  hear  their  toe-uails  and  claws  tap  the  floor 
as  they  crept  stealthily  across,  liftirif^  their  noses,  wrig- 
gling their  long  gray  mustaches,  snapping  their  glittering 
little  black  eyes,  drawing  their  snake-like  tails  close  and 
hard  along  the  floor.  A  heavy  movement  of  the  foot, 
ajid  the  rc])tile  forms  around  and  under  the  little  fruit 
bag  fell  back. 

The  little  face  lifted  at  last  in  the  dying  light,  and  the 
girl  was  calm  and  dispassionate  as  she  went  on  feebly 
again  : 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  "Walton,  1  am  not  going  to  die  now, 
if  you  say  I  am  not  ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  I  have 
thought  it  all  over  and  over,  and  I  have  decided  to  ask 
you  when  I  do  die  to — to  take  DoUie  straight  to — to  a — 
a  Mr.  Matherson — a  man  I  know,  Mr.  Walton — and 
ask  him  if  he  does  not  want  to  take  her  and  raise  her  and 
be  good  to  her. ' ' 

The  man  bit  his  lips,  and  again  found  excuse  to  bring 
his  foot  heavily  to  the  floor,  as  if  to  frighten  away  the 
rats  that  still  persisted  in  trying  to  climb  to  the  little 
paper  bag  of  fruit  on  the  table.  Then  the  girl  went  on, 
and  as  if  almost  to  herself  : 

"  Yes,  that  is  best.  For  he  wants  her.  Oh,  yes,  Mr. 
"Walton,  I  have  heard  he  wants  a  little  girl  ;  yes,  a  little 
girl  just  like  this.  I  know  he  wants  her.  I  know  it,  I — 
I—'"' 

She  broke  down  again,  ami  taking  a  stained  and 
tattered  handkerchief  from  under  her  pillow,  she  coughed 
and  sobbed  and  cried  till  the  child  awakened  with  a  start, 
and  sat  bolt  ujiright  in  bed  at  her  side. 

The  little  thing  did  not  cry,  did  not  rub  even  her  eyes 
on  awakening.  She  instantly  was  awake,  wide  and 
frightfully  awake. 

She  did  not  sec  Walton,  who  stood  a  little  back  in  the 


I'JG  THE    DESTRUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

darkness.  But  she  sprang  out  of  her  little  nest  of  tobacco- 
stems  and  started  at  once  for  the  rats.  They  retreated 
from  her  but  slowly. 

Then  she  came  back,  or  rather  turned  about  ;  and,  as 
she  did  so,  her  nostrils,  too,  took  in  the  rare  fragrance  of 
the  fruit. 

•  She  ran  to  the  table,  and  catching  up  the  paper  with 
a  singular  cry  of  delight,  a  cry  that  was  more  that  of  a 
bird  in  exultation  than  that  of  a  human  being,  she  has- 
tened with  it  to  her  mother.  And  how  they  ate  !  she 
holding  the  bag  all  the  time  to  her  breast,  only  lifting 
her  eyes  to  Walton,  not  saying  one  word. 

She  had  no  time  to  talk.  How  long  had  she  gone 
without  food  ?     'No  one  knows. 

The  night  was  far  spent,  and  darkness  possessed  the 
place.  The  rats  had  stolen  the  wick  from  the  lamp. 
The  little  piece  of  candle  had  been  carried  away  by  these 
same  pitiless  vermin.  They  were  filling  the  room  now. 
"Walton  took  up  the  pits  and  parings  of  the  now  con- 
sumed fruit,  and  threw  every  vestige  out  of  the  window, 
and  then  drove  the  rats  away  savagely. 

He  had  nnich  to  do  at  his  desk  up  under  the  flaming 
gas-jets,  and  must  be  going  to  his  work  at  once  ;  but 
how  could  he  leave  these  helpless,  dying  creatures  alone  ? 

A  thought  struck  him.  He  sat  down  on  the  table  as 
mother  and  child  sank  to  sleep  in  each  other's  arms,  and, 
whipping  out  pencil  and  pad,  he  began  his  work.  He 
wrote  page  after  page,  piling  up  his  work,  even  in  the 
darkness.  Only  the  driving  of  his  pencil  and  the  rattle  of 
the  leaves,  as  he  finished  page  after  page,  could  be  heard. 

At  last,  when  he  could  delay  not  a  moment  longer,  he 
started  out  on  tiptoe  and  hastened  to  the  office  with  long, 
strong  strides,  so  as  to  deliver  his  work  by  the  first  break 
of  day. 


CHAPTER  XXIIl. 
''whose  child  is  this?" 

It  is  a  hard  place,  this  N^ew  York,  to  keep  engage- 
ments, even  with  yourself.  Walton  meant  to  return  at 
once.  There  are  hundreds  of  thousands  of  men  who 
dine,  or  rather  breakfast,  in  this  great  city  on  a  meal 
made  up  of  one  quarter  chop,  one  quarter  bread  and 
coffee,  and  two  quarters  newspaper. 

Breadstuffs  may  go  up  or  down,  banks  may  fail,  but 
the  newspaper  must  not  fail,  or  even  be  behind  one  mo- 
ment. 

When  Walton  returned  and  climbed  up  the  creaky 
stairs  some  of  the  poor  people  were  going  out  to  their 
work,  with  little  tin  buckets  in  their  hands  and  their 
ragged  and  soil-stained  coats  over  their  shoulders.  They 
looked  at  him  sullenly,  but  he  did  not  stop  a  moment, 
turn  aside,  or  look  right  or  left. 

He  had  brought  a  man  with  him,  a  friend  and  young 
physician,  who  followed  on  as  fast  as  he  could  after  him. 
But  when  Walton  pushed  open  the  door  this  man  was 
still  only  half  way  up  the  long,  creaky,  and  tiresome 
stairs. 

Walton  had  made  the  last  four  or  five  steps  almost  at 
a  bound.  He  had  heard  a  sob,  as  if  the  sob  of  a  child, 
close  to  the  door,  lie  had  been  gone  many  hours.  The 
sun  was  high  in  the  heavens.  He  reproached  himself 
that  he  had  left  that  child — the  two  children,  the  baby 
and  the  baby-mother,  so  long  in  the  midst  of  such  terri- 


198  THE    DESTRUCTION   OF  GOTHAM. 

ble  surroundings.  What  if  tliey  were  dying  ?  What  if 
she  were  dead  ? 

It  was  ahnost  dark,  coming  in  from  the  full  sunlight 
to  where  there  was  but  one  window,  and  that  one  win- 
dow in  the  west. 

The  man  in  his  excitement  did  not  at  first  see  clearly. 
He  stood  there  with  the  edge  of  the  door  in  his  right 
hand,  holding  on  to  it  tightl}',  looking  straight  ahead, 
leaning  forward,  listening  to  catch  a  single  sound,  a  sign 
of  life  above  the  beating  of  his  heart. 

A  rat  stole  out  from  a  corner  near  the  bed,  and  came 
sliding,  creeping,  crawling  like  a  serpent  along  the  edge 
of  the  wall  toward  the  half-open  door. 

Then  it  returned  and  crept  under  the  bed. 

Then  another  and  still  another  stole  out  and  crawled 
along  the  farther  edge  of  the  wall  toward  the  silent,  the 
unutterably  silent  corner  where  was  the  little  bed  of  rags 
and  tobacco  strips,  hid  away  behind  the  Kttle  curtain  of 
canvas  on  the  frame  of  iron  hooks. 

The  man  started  forward  with  horror  at  the  sight  of 
these  accumulating  vermin.  He  heard  a  sob  almost 
imder  his  feet,  and  looking  down,  there  by  the  door,  as 
if  she  had  been  waiting,  waiting,  waiting  and  wee2)ing 
all  the  time,  in  silent  terror  sat  the  little  girl. 

"  I'm — I'm — I'm  so  frightened  !" 

"  My  child,  where  is — how  is  auntie  ?" 

He  caught  her  up,  and  clasping  her  to  his  bretist, 
started  forward  as  the  doctor  came  in  and  followed  after. 

"Dead?" 

"Dead  !" 

And  the  doctor  laid  the  little  brown,  tobacco-stained 
hand,  which  he  had  caught  up  carefully,  kindly,  tenderly, 
across  the  poor,  hungry,  hollow  breast — the  breast  that 
had  hungered  always,  always  for  love  and  peace  and  gen- 


"VVUOSE   CHILD   IS  THIS?"  199 

tleness  and  the  pure  highways  of  this  mysterious  journey 
over  the  isthmus  which  divides  the  two  undiscovered  seas. 

The  child  continued  sobbing  pitifully.  It  had  been 
crying  and  rubbing  its  little  lists  into  its  great  black  eyes 
for  hours.  Her  cheeks  were  stained  with  dried-up  tears. 
There  were  even  furrows  in  her  cheeks.  This  child  of 
only  a  few  years  was  already  old  and  wrinkled. 

Walton  took  it  to  the  window,  looked  in  its  pitiful 
face,  pressed  its  sobbing  little  breast  to  his,  and  tried  hard 
to  comfort  it.  He  thought  it  did  not  understand  what 
had  happened,  and  that  it  was  only  afraid.  lie  attempted 
to  stand  her  down  on  the  floor  at  his  feet ;  but  she  held 
on  to  his  coat  with  her  little  hands,  and  would  not  let  go. 

And  the  man  was  glad.  He  loved  the  child.  He, 
too,  was  as  lone  and  homeless  and  friendless  and  desolate 
as  she. 

Whatever  it  was,  whether  fear  or  love,  made  this 
wretched  little  creature  cling  to  him,  he  was  glad  that  it 
did  so.  It  made  the  blood  of  his  heart  run  full  and  re- 
sponsive. 

He  felt  more  brave,  unselfish,  better  for  it.  Still  he 
had  his  mission  to  perform — an  unpleasant  task — a  prom- 
ise he  had  made  the  dead  woman  there  the  night  be- 
fore, and  he  would  keep  it. 

He  spoke  to  the  doctor  hurriedly,  named  the  place  he 
desired  the  dead  to  rest,  gave  some  simple  directions,  laid 
down  a  little  package  of  silver,  with  injunctions  to  call 
upon  him  for  whatever  more  might  be  required  in  the 
way  of  expense,  and  then,  taking  one  more  look  at  the 
poor,  tired  little  Dottie,  now  resting  in  her  long,  long 
rest,  he  turned  to  go,  to  take  this  child  he  loved  to  his 
one  hated  enemy. 

"  Mannna  dead  !" 

The  two  men  stared  as  the  child  murmured  out  these 


200  THE    DESTUUCTION    OF    GOTriAM. 

two  words  between  licr  broken  sobs,  and  looked  at  each 
other  in  awe  and  silence. 

Then  Walton  took  her  close  up  to  the  bedside  of  the 
dead,  held  down  her  little  face,  bade  her  kiss  the  cold, 
silent  little  toiler,  and  turning  away,  half-choking,  has- 
tened down  the  creaky  stairs,  with  the  child  held  close  to 
his  heaving  breast. 

In  what  solemn  hour  had  the  dead  woman  committed 
her  secret  to  this  child  in  that  desolate  place  as  she  lay 
there  waiting  the  footsteps  of  death  ?  AVho  had  told  this 
baby  the  solemn  mysteries  of  death  and  all  the  pitiful 
reality  of  life  ? 

"  Mamma  dead  !" 

The  child's  head  had  sunk  heavily  on  the  man's  shoul- 
der in  the  car  as  he  was  on  his  way  up-town  to  the  home 
of  old  Colonel  Lane,  and  he  thought  her  sound  asleep  as 
these  words  again  came  up  in  a  stifled  sob  from  her 
broken  little  heart :  "  Mamma   dead  /" 

The  poor  girl  had  wanted  to  be  all  in  all  to  her  child. 

She  w;is  going  to  give  her  back  to  him,  now  that  she 
could  no  more  hold  her  little  hand,  lead  her,  guide  her 
helpless  little  feet. 

But  the  mother's  heart  had  cried  out  there  in  the  dark- 
ness and  by  the  black  waters  of  death  in  the  dark  and 
silence. 

She  had  taught  lier  to  say  the  one  dearest  word  in  all 
tongues  as  she  lay  dying  there. 

And  she  had  told  her,  w^hile  the  sea  of  darkness  rolled 
and  surged  by,  that  she  was  going  away  from  her  into  the 
land  of  everlasting  sleep  and  of  dreams — to  die. 

And  so  it  was  that  this  child  knew  her  mother,  and 
should  remember  and  revere  her  dead  mother  till  they 
two  sliould  meet  in  the  land  of  the  stars  which  the  mother 
had  pointed  out  to  her,  without  the  aid  of  prayer-book 


"AVKOSE    CHILD    IS   THIS?"  201 

or  of  priest,  from  the  one  little  -window  in  those  last 
nights  of  snffering  and  despair. 

As  is  sometimes  the  custom,  Matherson,  in  becoming 
engaged  to  Ilattie  Lane,  had  taken  np  his  residence  at 
her  father's  house,  or,  rather,  he  had  gone  to  live  in  the 
same  roomy,  aristocratic  house  on  Fifth  Avenue  for  the 
few  days  now  intervening  between  this  and  tlie  day  of 
his  marriage. 

\Yalton  went  directly  to  this  house.  Ilis  lieart  was 
full.     His  face  spoke  resolution  and  purpose  in  every  line. 

He  held  in  his  hand  a  little  gold  chain  with  a  locket 
bearing  Matherson's  name,  which  he  had  taken  from  a 
recess  in  his  pocketbook  as  he  proceeded  up-town  on  his 
mission  of  duty  to  the  dead. 

He  rang  with  a  force  and  jerk  of  the  bell  that  was 
almost  savage.  A  liveried  servant  opened  the  door,  and 
stood  full  in  front  of  the  man  with  the  pitiful  face  of  a 
withered  child  falling  low  on  his  shoulder. 

*'  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Matherson  and  Miss  Lane." 

''  I  will  see  if  they  are  in  and  will  see  you." 

"  They  are  in  and  will  see.  Say  that  Mr.  "Walton  has 
called  with  a  little  child." 

Before  the  servant  could  remonstrate  the  man  had 
passed  him  and  entered  the  parlor,  splendid  with  mirrors 
and  all  the  elegance  of  opulent  houses  in  this  quarter  of 
the  great  city.     He  threw  himself  wearily  in  a  seat. 

The  child's  eyes  were  suddenly  wide  open.  It  had 
never  seen  anything  like  this  before.  Surely  she,  too, 
was  dead  arid  gone  to  the  place  her  mamma  had  spoken 
of  going  to. 

She  looked  about  in  full  expectation  of  seeing  her  poor 
mother  walk  out,  white  and  radiant  in  an  angel's  dress, 
and  welcome  her  coming,  as  she  had  promised. 

It  was  a  late  hour  ;  and  yet  it  was  very  early.     But 


202  THE   DESTHUCTION   OF   GOTHAM. 

this  depends  on   what  part  of  tlie  city  you  are  in.     It 
Wiis  very  lute  for  down-town.     It  was  early  for  iip-town. 

A  haggard  and  plainly-clad  man  with  a  child's  face  on 
his  shoulder  is  not  a  frequent  thing  at  this  hour  in  the 
way  of  a  visitor  anywhere. 

But  when  that  man  visits  Fifth  Avenue,  and  is  ushered 
in  by  a  servant  whose  imagination  does  ample  justice  to 
all  the  beggarly  aspect  of  the  case,  sometliing  unusual  is 
to  be  looked  for. 

But  the  man's  manner  commanded  respect.  Through 
the  not  very  firmly  closed  parlor  doors  in  the  rear  the 
rattle  of  silver  and  the  melodious  voices  of  a  well-bred 
party  at  breakfast  could  be  distinctly  heard. 

And  then  there  was  a  savory  smell  of  chops  and  coffee 
that  challenged  recollection  of  the  supper  of  fruit  down 
yonder  in  the  little  tobacco  room  in  the  tenement  among 
the  rats.  The  child  was  hungry,  starving,  dying ;  but 
she  had  learned  her  hard,  bitter  lesson  patiently  and  well. 
She  did  not  ask  for  food  or  complain  or  say  one  word. 

She  only  moved  her  pouty  little  lips  and  turned  her 
great,  sad  eyes  from  the  glittering  mirrors  and  golden 
burnishings  toward  where  the  dishes  rattled  and  the 
merry  voices  spoke  soft  and  cheerily  in  the  rear,  and 
where  the  savory  chops  and  coffee  were  discussed. 

Pretty  soon  Mr.  Matherson  entered.  He  entered  the 
parlor,  napkin  in  hand.  He  had  evidently  come  to  see 
what  Walton  could  possibly  want  with  Hattie  Lane  at 
this  hour  of  the  morning,  and  with  a  child  in  his  arms. 

It  was  evident  to  AValton  that  he  was  not  to  be  per- 
mitted to  see  this  lady  without  a  scene.     After  all,  why 
should  he  see  her  ?     His  business  was  strictly  with  her  - 
betrothed. 

Matherson  gave  his  hand  coldly,  but  with  perfect  good- 
breeding. 


"WHOSE   CHILD    IS   THIS?"  2U3 

Yet  did  he  not  hold  the  insultiTig  flag  of  truce  in  the 
left  hand,  as  if  to  signify  that  the  parley  could  not  last 
long,  but  that  he  must  return  to  his  chops  and  coffee  ? 

Walton,  tired,  weary,  broken  as  he  was,  would  not 
have  felt  so  bitterly  as  he  did  at  that  moment,  had  the 
man  not  signified  this. 

The  httle  child  he  left  sitting  down  on  a  far  corner  of 
a  purple  silk  sofa,  as  he  came  forward  to  meet  Mather- 
son.     She  was  almost  hidden  in  this  imperial  throne. 

Her  little  hands  had  botli  laid  hold  of  tliu  silver  arm 
of  the  sofa,  and  held  on  very  tightly,  as  if  the  little  thing 
feared  she  might  be  suddenly  taken  away  without  seeing 
mamma. 

The  hungry,  starved  and  helpless  thing  was  all  eyes  as 
this  handsome  man  entered  and  stood  before  Walton, 
napkin  in  hand,  and  spoke  so  civilly  and  so  softly,  too. 

She  was  certain  she  had  never  seen  any  one  so  elegant 
in  all  her  life. 

How  her  poor  little  soul  and  gentle  nature  insensibly- 
fitted  into  these  sweet  and  refined  surroundings  ! 

"  I  have  brought  you  Dottie's  child." 

"  For  God's  sake,  man  ! — ^yes,  yes,  1  see.  But  take 
her  away,  Walton  !     Take  her  away  till — till — " 

There  was  a  rustle  as  of  a  woman's  step  outside  the 
parlor  door  in  the  great  hall.  Hattie  Lane  was  leisurely 
leaving  the  breakfast-room  and  coming  into  the  parlor. 

"  And  you  are  not  going  to  acknowledge  her  ?  Ton 
are  going  to  hide  her  away  and  bring  her  up  without 
name  or  place  ?  You  are  going  to  disown  her  as  you  did 
her  mother  at  your  pleasure  and  will  V ' 

Walton  had  walked  hastily  down  toward  the  corner  of 
the  sofa  and  caught  up  the  child.  He  was  holding  the 
waif  in  his  arms  as  Hattie  Lane  entered  the  parlor  with 
her  father. 


204  THE    DESTKUCTIOX    OF   GOTHAil. 

"  Don't  tell  her  !  don't  !  don't  !  I  will  do  what  is 
right.  I  -will  give  you  gold,  gold,  plenty  of  gold." 
Matherson  had  said  this  as  he  turned  from  the  door  and 
met  Walton,  who  liad  the  child  in  his  arms,  and  was 
striding  with  a  resolute  step  back  out  of  the  parlor  into 
the  hall. 

"  "Why,  Mr.  Walton,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !  And 
you  must  have  a  cup  of  coffee  with  us.  I  am  sure  a  cup 
of  coffee  to  a  hard-worked  journalist  would  not  be 
unpalatable.  Come  !  I  have  been  making  it  myself. 
It  is  steaming  hot.  Why,  you  are  not  to  be  always 
in  a  hurry  ?     You  are  really  not  going  T' 

"  1  am  going," 

"  But  you  called  to  see  me  ?" 

"  I  called  to  see  Mr.  Matherson." 

"  And  the  child  ?  Why,  the  poor,  motherless  thing, 
how  weary  it  is  !  And  whom  did  the  child  come  to 
see  ?" 

"  Mr.  Matherson  !"  answered  Walton,  coldly  and 
firmly.  Matherson  had  turned  as  white  as  the  flag  of 
truce  which  he  now  twisted  in  his  two  hands. 

All  his  happiness,  her  happiness — above  all,  A^r  happi- 
ness, was  hanging  now  in  the  balance,  and  was  in  Wal- 
ton's hands. 

"  To  see  Mr.  Matherson  ?  The  child  to  see  Mr. 
Matherson  ?" 

Hattie  Lane's  hands  were  clasped  together  suddenly 
now,  and  with  strange  alarm.  Terror  and  pain  were  in 
her  face. 

Walton  had  passed  out  into  the  hall  meantime  and 
reached  the  door,  opened  it,  and  stood  there,  ready  to 
descend.  The  child  clung  to  his  neck.  Matherson  still 
stood  far  back,  twisting  the  napkin,  and  bowed  with 
shame. 


'MVHOSE    CHILI)    IS   THIS?"  205 

"  "Walton,  TVEr.  Walton,"  cried  Tlattie  Lane,  followinf^ 
the  man  out  on  tlie  great  brown-stone  steps,  "  whose 
child  is  this  ?" 

AVliat  could  he  answer  ?     What  did  he  answer  ? 

Tlien  Mathersoii  had  told  her  nothing  at  all  !  Should 
Walton  tell  her  truly  all  her  lover's  treachery,  cowardice, 
the  misery  of  the  dead  ? 

What  good  would  that  do  ?  And  then  it  would  make 
her  so  miserable  ! 

"Mr.  Walton,  whose  child  is  this?"  pleaded  the 
woman  again. 

"  J//7<6'."'  answered  the  man,  and  down  the  broad, 
brown-stone  steps  he  swiftly  passed,  and  left  the  woman 
he  loved  to  her  happiness. 

The  door  closed  behind  him — the  door  to  the  tomb  of 
his  dead  love.  He  stood  there  a  moment  in  the  clear, 
cold  morning  sun.  Some  people  were  passing  hurriedly. 
Where  should  he  go  ?  AVhat  should  he  do  with  the  child 
in  his  arms  ?  He  drew  it  closer  to  his  heart,  for  it  was 
cold,  and  he  was,  oh  !  so  desolate  and  lone. 

The  child  smiled,  and  lifting  up  its  little  arms,  threw 
them  about  the  man's  neck,  and  answered  caress  with 
caress  there  in  the  cold  and  frosty  weather.  How  home- 
less and  how  desolate  in  a  city  of  homes  !  AVhither  could 
lie  go  ? 

He  had  done  his  duty  simply,  silently,  unselfishly. 
He  was  in  a  measure  happy  at  last.  He  was  a  thousand- 
fold happier  with  this  little  one's  arms  about  his  neck 
there  at  the  foot  of  the  great,  high  steps  of  the  brown- 
stone  front  than  the  man  inside. 

Let  us  leave  him  here,  and  with  no  fear  for  the  future 
of  him  or  his.     There  is  a  God,  is  there  not  ? 

Well,  then,  what  is  God  for  but  to  help  a  man  at  such 
a  time  as  this,  I  should  like  to  know  i 


CHAPTEE  XXIV. 

''fire!" 

It  is  not  dignified,  not  even  decent,  to  go  throngli  life 
crying  ' '  wolf, ' '  and  distracting  the  world  from  its  work 
in  hand.  And  so  I  have  been  silent  about  the  gathering 
storm  and  the  nnder  mutterings  of  the  people  down  in  the 
sea  of  slime  and  weeds  and  drift.  But  they  had  tasted 
blood  ! 

This  last-named  fact  has  no  significance,  perhaps,  to 
you  of  the  city  ;  but  to  the  man  who  has  lived  with,  the 
man  who  has  seen  more  of,  animals  than  of  the  one 
drunken  animal,  man,  it  means  everything. 

The  mob  was  growing  restless  again.  Tliese  men 
from  the  lower  end  of  the  great  city  had  consumed  their 
plunder.     Would  they  go  to  work  ?     Nonsense  ! 

They  had  overthrown  the  grandest  of  all  the  grand 
houses  on  Fifth  Avenue.  "VYell,  if  they  could  overthrow 
and  plunder  the  greatest,  could  they  not  overthrow 
others  ?  The  argument  was  very  clear  to  the  many 
liungry  followers  of  the  great  leaders  who  had  been 
luirled  from  the  very  high  circles  of  Murray  Hill. 

It  was  a  clear,  crisp  autumn  morning  that  Walton 
stood  out  there  on  the  high  brown-stone  steps  %vith  the 
child  in  his  arms,  wondering  where  he  should  go  or  what 
he  should  do. 

The  door  had  been  closed  behind  him  hastily,  and 
little  Dollie's  heaven  had  been  so  suddenly  swept  away  ! 
Matherson's  hand  could  not  help  shutting  Walton  out  and 


*'  FIRE  !"  207 

irattie  Lane  in  with  all  possible  liaste.  He  wanted  to 
liave  that  man  with  the  child  outside.  lie  wanted  Ilattie 
Lane  inside.  He  wanted  to  have  these  two  as  wide  apart 
as  possible,  a  wall  as  high  as  heaven  between  them. 

And  yet  it  was  hardly  necessary  now.  Ilattie  Lane 
had  been  brought  up  in  the  great  modern  hot-house 
school,  and  had  learned  the  one  great  lesson  of  the  day 
attentively  and  well — this  one  lesson  which  is  in  ISfew 
York  indeed  more  than  all  else  in  life.  It  is  not  only  a 
part  of  the  decalogue,  but  it  is  the  decalogue  itself,  the 
very  first  of  the  Ten  Commandments  of  New  York  : 
"  Thou  shalt  not  be  poor  !" 

This  part  of  her  life,  this  hard  part  of  her  soul,  has 
been  withheld  deliberately  to  the  last ;  and  simply  be- 
cause it  was  so  oifensive.  But  had  she  been  any  other 
than  a  New  York  lady  an  explanation  had  been  neces- 
sary long  ere  this  last  chapter. 

But  instead  of  explaining  that  her  horror  of  poverty, 
her  adulation  of  riches,  and  the  strong  money-getting 
and  grasping  nature  of  Matherson  made  her  constant  to 
him,  it  has  been  thought  sufficient  all  through  to  simply 
keep  the  fact  prominent  that  she  was  born  and  bred  in 
Gotham. 

Yes,  she  may  have  heard,  she  may  have  guessed,  she 
may  have  even  believed  that  Matherson  had  been  guilty 
of  a  crime — she  may  even  have  strongly  believed  that 
]\[atherson  was  guilty  of  crime ;  but  while  she  may 
have  believed  that  Matherson  was  guilty  of  a  crime,  she 
knew  that  AValton  was — the  crime  of  poverty,  the  vnola- 
tion  of  the  first  great  law  of  the  great,  drunken,  revel- 
ling, and  riotous  city.  I  set  this  fact  down  briefly, 
hastily,  and  regretfully.     But  God  made  her,  not  I. 

As  Walton  stood  there  an  instant  the  pavements  be- 
fore   him    began   to  vibrate,    roar,    rattle,  and    sliake. 


5208  THE    DESTRtrCTlON   OF   GOTHAM. 

Strong,  plunging  horses  flew  past,  and  on  and  up  the 
avenue. 

The  engine  was  sowing  the  street  with  lire.  The 
billows  of  black  smoke  were  in  the  air. 

The  brave  and  faithful  men  on  the  engine  lifted  their 
faces  for  battle.  They  knew  that  terrible  work  was 
before  them  ;  for  they  were  of  the  people.  Yet — that 
one  largest  word  in  all  our  vigorous  English — they  set 
their  lips  firmly  for  their  work.  These  firemen  felt  that 
they  were  going  to  their  death.  Not  one  was  missing 
from  his  place.  Not  one  face  was  blanched.  Yet  they 
had  been  told  face  to  face  by  the  leaders  of  the  people 
that  the  city  was  doomed. 

They  had  been  told  by  the  jJeople  that  the  people  had 
built  New  York  and  the  people  would  destroy  New  York 
if  they  chose.     And  they  had  at  last  so  chosen  ! 

Another  engine  !  and  another  ! — the  horses  flying, 
the  great  wheels  whirling  in  the  air,  the  smoke,  the 
flames  !  Surely,  there  was  going  to  be  hot  work  up  in 
the  wealthy  quarter. 

"Walton  hastened  down  the  steps.  He  wrote  as  he 
ran.  The  child  was  on  his  shoulder,  looking  back 
eagerly,  silently,  at  that  closed  door  which  shut  out  the 
silk  and  purple  heaven  where  she  had  hoped  to  see  her 
mother. 

As  he  reached  a  certain  corner,  and  passed  before  the 
entrance  of  a  certain  fashionable  restaurant,  he  saw  a 
strange  man  enter  ;  then  another  ;  then  another  ;  then 
another. 

Then  great  numbers  of  strange  men  entered  and  hastily 
sat  themselves  at  the  tempting  tables.  The  proprietor 
was  wild  with  delight.  Let  the  great  city  burn  !  What 
was  a  fire  to  his  good  fortune  ? 

The  reporter  stopped  suddenly.     He  set   down   the 


"  FIKE  !"  209 

child,  and  was  edging  up  to  a  wall  and  out  of  the  way  of 
the  surging  throng  rushing  to  the  fire  as  he  wrote. 

He  wrote  with  wild  haste.  He  wrote  even  ahead  of 
the  facts.  This  seems  strange  ;  but  it  is  true.  Indeed, 
were  it  not  both  strange  and  true,  I  should  not  trouble 
myself  or  you  to  tell  it. 

Times  had  been  terribly  dull  since  the  first  riots,  since 
the  people  had  tasted  blood  and  become  entirely  drunken. 
But  now,  as  the  keeper  of  the  great  fashionable  restaurant 
saw  his  tables  filling  up  he  stroked  his  fat  sides  and 
rubbed  his  fat  hands  with  delight.  Good  times  had  sud- 
denly returned  ! 

But  this  is  what  "Walton,  the  reporter,  wrote  for  his 
great  newspaper  corporation  down-town,  even  while  the 
fat  host  stroked  his  fat  sides,  and  full  half  an  hour  before 
the  men  began  to  grow  drunk  from  the  deluge  of  costly 
wines  which  they  at  the  first  began  to  order,  careless 
of  cost : 

"  At  five  minutes  to  eleven  a  stranger  from  the 
Bowery  entered  the  Brunswick.  This  was  the  head 
of  the  mob  which  sacked  and  burned  the  city.  Soon 
after  this  stranger  came  another,  then  another,  then  an- 
other, till  a  hundred  hungry  men  were  eating.  They 
were  men  who  had  never  been  seen  in  this  part  of  the 
city.  They  ordered  costly  wines,  not  knowing  their 
quality,  and  not  caring  for  the  cost.  In  half  an  hour 
they  were  desperately  drunk.  In  less  than  an  hour  the 
proprietor  became  alarmed,  and  attempted  to  close  the 
house  against  the  drunken  mob  that  came  pouring  up 
Fifth  Avenue.  But  the  strange  men  laughed  at  him, 
and  threw  their  empty  bottles  at  his  head.  They  opened 
wide  the  doors  to  the  hungry  crowd,  and  took  entire  pos- 
session. In  sixtv  minutes  from  the  time  the  first  straneer 
entered,  the  Brunswick  was  sacked  and  in  ilanies." 


210  THE    DESTKL'CTION    OF    GOTHAM. 

The  engines  poured  up  Fiftli  Avenue  like  a  river  of 
flame  and  smoke. 

Walton  turned,  hastened  on,  climbed  to  the  elevated 
railroad,  and,  with  the  child  at  his  side  up  in  tlie  higli 
garret,  was,  in  less  than  half  an  hour,  feeding  the  hun- 
gry press  with  facts  that  were  as  yet  unborn. 

From  his  high  perch,  which  looked  out  and  over  the 
city,  he  could  see  billows  and  waves  and  worlds  of  smoke 
and  flame  far  up  and  in  the  very  heart  of  the  opulent  city. 

The  very  heavens,  so  fair  and  restful  and  lovely  in  the 
morning,  were  growing  dark  and  terrible.  The  city  at 
his  feet  was  empty.     The  child  had  not  spoken. 

The  hungry  city  was  feasting  now.  The  child  was 
starving  silently. 

Suddenly  the  reporter  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  for  the 
flrst  time  turned  pale.  He  had  hoped  the  mob  had  all 
followed  the  cry  of  fire  up  and  into  the  proud  and  wealthy 
heart  of  the  city.  Kot  so.  He  heard  wild  and  drunken 
voices  below.  The  flames  had  broken  out  in  the  city  at 
his  feet.  Oh,  the  poor  part  of  the  city  would  burn,  too, 
as  well  as  the  rich  !     What  a  grand  old  democrat  is  fire  ! 

The  reporter  went  to  the  rear  window — the  child  was 
in  his  arms — and  looked  out  and  down  to  the  drunken, 
yelling,  howling  thousands  who  had  kindled  the  fires  in 
the  rear  and  were  fleeing  away  before  the  flames. 

They  had  pillaged  a  saloon,  and,  locked  arm  in  arm, 
singing  "Sherman's  March  tlirough  Georgia,"  with  a 
bottle  in  each  hand,  which  they  lifted  alternately  and 
at  brief  intervals  to  their  lips,  they  sang  and  shouted, 
and  drank  and  drank,  and  shouted  and  sang,  while  the 
reporter  took  up  his  charge,  and  again  rushed  back  to 
his  desk  to  set  down  this  new  detail  of  the  terrible  work. 

When  this  ' '  copy ' '  w^as  completed  he  rang  for  the 
boy. 


**fire!"  211 

"NTo  boy  came. 

He  started.  Tlie  little  child  crouched  close  up  against 
liis  knee  and  tremljled.  The  old  ink-stained  walls  echoed 
and  laui!;hed  like  demons,  but  no  answer  came  back.  He 
started  up  in  terror. 

The  man  was  alone  with  this  child  in  the  top  of  a  lofty 
and  tottering  edifice.  The  flames  had  their  teeth  in  the 
foundations.  The  smoke  was  bursting  through  the  win- 
dows in  the  rear,  and  licking  their  red  tongues  around 
the  presses.  This  fact  must  be  noted.  Again  he  sat 
down  and  wrote  hastily.  He  drew  the  child  closer  to 
liis  knee  with  his  left  hand  and  wrote  on  rapidly.  He 
did  not  mention  himself,  his  sensations,  his  terror,  and 
responsibility  with  fhis  helpless  child.  He  was  writing 
of  the  burning  of  New  York. 

Suddenly  he  seemed  to  be  aroused  to  the  full  concep- 
tion of  his  peril.  Front  and  rear  the  flames  were  burst- 
ing out,  leaping  like  things  of  animate  life  toward  other 
ediflces  far  across  the  street. 

Front  and  rear,  and  all  around,  were  leaping,  licking, 
hungry  flames  !  He  caught  up  the  child  that  had  not 
yet  spoken,  and  dashing  his  back  against  the  old  ink  and 
lead-stained  door  that  shut  off  a  little  "  composing  "  room 
used  for  getting  out  "  extras,"  he  burst  it  open. 

He  stood  all  alone.     Empty  as  a  tomb. 

Ko  sound  or  sign  of  life  at  all,  or  of  anything.  Not  so 
much  as  a  rat. 

The  child  rather  liked  the  place. 

Here  a  printer  had  left  under  a  leaden  weight  a  portion 
of  the  copy  the  reporter  had  flrstsentin.  There  another 
had  left  his  stick  only  half  full  and  in  a  place  where  it 
would  be  easily  thrown  down. 

"Walton  set  it  carefully  asitle. 

Then,  hastening  on  through  an  empty  door,  he  saw,  to 


212  THE    DESTUUCTION    OF   OOTIIAM. 

his  great  delight,  that  a  high,  narrow  bridge  led  from 
the  high  level  of  the  window  before  him  on  and  out  to 
the  top  of  a  substantial  brick  edifice  that  had  as  yet  not 
surrendered  to  the  besieging  flames. 

He  caught  up  tlie  child,  and  kissed  it  affectionately. 

And  then  started  to  rush  out  and  down,  and  so  escape. 
But  suddenly  he  stopped,  turned  on  his  heel,  and  as  if 
smitten  with  regret  at  the  thought  of  flight,  went  hastily 
and  doggedly  back  to  his  work.  He  wrote  now  more 
resolutely  than  before,  as  if  to  make  up  for  his  error  and 
the  time  he  had  wasted. 

The  great  presses,  as  before  suggested,  stood  in  the 
rear  and  back,  as  did  the  main  part  of  the  dirty  and 
rickety  "  composing  "  department.  When  he  had  writ- 
ten up  all  he  had  seen  of  the  progress  of  the  flames  in 
this  last  sally,  be  arose,  and  taking  up  the  child,  went 
ajjain  to  the  back  windows  and  looked  down  and  out  and 
into  the  dilapidated  old  wing  where  the  presses  were. 
They  had  surrendered. 

The  great  iron  engines  were  dropping  one  by  one 
through  the  flames  and  far  down  to  the  ground. 

The  type  in  the  vast  composing-room  here  was  melt- 
ing, streaming  down  in  streams  of  lead. 

A  riv^er  of  lead  was  flowing  from  Franklin  Square  out 
and  on  and  on,  and  out  and  into,  and  down  to  the  deep 
mud  and  muck  of  the  river. 

Walton  sighed  and  shook  his  head.  At  last,  as  the 
place  was  too  hot  for  the  child,  he  turned,  took  his  copy 
in  his  hand  from  the  desk  as  he  passed,  and  then  has- 
tened through  the  small  composing-room,  still  intact,  and, 
holding  the  ever-silunt  child  close  to  his  breast,  he  sprang 
like  a  deer  across  the  narrow  bridge  and  above  the  sea 
of  fire  that  singed  his  clothes  and  hair  as  he  passed  safely 
to  the  other  side  ! 


"I'-iuk!"  213 

Tlie  instinct  wliicli  liiid  huun  cultivatod  till  it  i>ec;nne 
second  nature  made  liini  pause,  even  here  on  this  hi<i:h 
housetop,  and  sweep  his  eyes  over  the  burning  island. 

For  it  was  literally  a  burnini!;  island  now.  The  very 
earth  was  on  tire.  The  oil,  the  gas,  tlie  ruin,  the  thou- 
sands of  tilthy  things  which  num  in  liis  drunken  greed 
luid  allowed  to  accumulate  on  the  face  of  tiie  island  ap- 
pealed to  heaven  for  purification. 

And  so  the  flame  laid  hungry  and  hard  hold  of  the 
face  of  the  earth,  and  burned  and  burned  and  burned  to 
the  very  bed-rock  ! 

l>ut  the  reporter  had  but  little  time  to  remain.  Not 
oidy  his  own  life,  but  the  life  of  some  one  not  long  from 
the  presence  of  the  Eternal  was  in  his  hands. 

lie  hastened  on — all  doors  had  been  either  left  open 
or  had  been  broken  open  by  plunderers,  and  so  his  way 
was  easy — till  he  reached  the  ground  ahnost  on  the  first 
steps  of  the  Bruoklyn  Bridge.  xVnd  here  the  way  was 
open  to  escape  entirely. 

He  sighed  again  here  as  he  looked  back  and  saw  the 
lofty  and  rickety  old  garret  sink  down  in  a  gulf  of  fire. 

Surely,  his  work  was  done.  lie  had  been  the  last  to 
leave  his  post.  The  large  word  '*  duty"  no  longer  com- 
manding him  to  WRITE  !  WKHE  !  as  one  at  Patmos. 

The  river  was  deserted.  The  bridge  was  deserted. 
Men  had  not  been  looking  for  water  that  day.  They 
thirsted  for  somethini;  stron^^er.  And  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands  had  perished. 

Leading  the  child,  tlien  taking  it  in  his  arms,  the  re- 
porter walked  on  over  the  bridge. 

****** 

The  shivering  little  Wall  Street  lieroof  ''  exemplary  " 
liabits  had  l)een  seen  early  in  the  day,  hugging  the  edge 
of  Union  Stpuire.     Surely,  here  was  fire  enough  for  him 


214  THE   DESTltUCTlOif   OF   GOTHAil. 

to  get  warmer  by  and  stop  shivering  and  shaking.  But 
he  shivered  and  shook,  and  shook  and  shivered  as  lie 
never  had  shivered  and  shook  or  shaken  before.  Brandy 
was  of  no  avail  now. 

At  last  the  colossal  front  of  one  'of  the  lofty  edifices 
on  flame  broke  loose  and  fell  out  and  over  the  square  in 
a  vast  sheet  of  flame,  covering  the  mad  and  trembling 
multitude.  Stone  was  of  them.  Let  us  hope  he  got 
warm  and  stopped  shivering  before  he  left  this  earth,  or 
very  soon  afterward. 


THE    END. 


A  NEW  NOVEL  BY  JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

"  THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  GOTHAM."    Price  $1.00, 

This  is  a  most  graphic  story  of  tlie  times,  Bhowirtg  the  con- 
flict botwoen  tho  upper  and  lower  stratas  of  society  in  New 
York,  euding  in  a  great  disaster  to  the  city  itself.  It  is  an  in- 
tensely interesting  and  iiowerlul  story.  Joaquin  Miller  is  a 
writer  whose  fame  is  world-wide. 

WHAT  THE  CRITICS  SAY  OF  JOAQUIN  MILLER. 
The  London  Ttmessays:    "  His  writings  are  charged  with  ytiS. 
Bionate  life,  and  display  a  fervor  of  poetic  appreciation  and 
sympathy,  combined  with  startling  beauty  and  x>ower." 

The  London  Globe  aaja:  "To  follow  him  is  like  following  a 
keen,  swift  rider,  who  rides  eagerly,  it  matters  not  whither, 
and  who  attracts  us  by  a  wild  grace  and  a  beautiful  skill  as  he 
rushes  through  scenes  of  luxuriant  loveliness  that  would  cause 
a  less  impetuous  horseman  to  jiause  and  linger." 

The  London  Bookseller  says:  ' '  Mr.  Miller  is  a  man  of  sympa- 
thetic instincts  and  deep  reverence  for  all  that  is  high  and 
noble  in  nature  and  humanity." 

The  London  Academy  says:  "  Mr.  Miller  has  the  faculty  of 
making  himselt  felt  through  what  ho  writes." 


FUNK  &  WAGN  ALLS,  Publishers,  lo  &  12  Dey  St..  N.  Y. 


TWO  NEW  NO  VELS  B  V  JULIAN  HA  W- 
THORNE. 

"  THE  COUNTESS  ALMARA'S  MURDER"  and"  THE  TRIAL 
OF  GIDEON."  Both  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  75  cts. 
To  be  ready  about  June  20th. 

The  plot  of  the  first  novel  is  laid  in  prehistoric  times  on  the 
hills  of  Moab;  that  of  the  second  in  New  York  City.  Julian 
Hawthorne  is  a  writer  of  remarkable  ability.  No  living  writer 
equals  him  in  the  creative  power  of  imagination.  Take  what 
subject  he  will,  Mr.  Hawthorne  always  throws  around  it  the 
glamour  of  a  charrains;  literary  style,  and  exhibits,  even  in  his 
lightest  writings,  the  color  of  a  thoughtful  and  briUiant  mind. 
His  stylo  is  exceedingly  fascinating. 

WHAT  THE  CRITICS  SAT  OF  JULIAN  HAWTHORNE. 

ITie  Independent,  New  York,  says:  "Julian  Hawthorne  can 
choose  no  better  compliment  upon  his  new  romance  (Archi- 
bald Malmaison)  than  the  assurance  that  he  has  at  last  put 
forth  a  story  which  reads  as  if  the  manuscript,  written  in  his 
father's  indecipherable  handwriting  and  signed  'Nathaniel 
Hawthorne,'  had  lain  shut  into  a  desk  for  25  years,  to  be  only 
just  now  pulled  out  and  printed.  It  is  a  masterful  romance; 
short,  compressed,  and  terribly  dramatic." 

The  London  Times  says:  "  After  perusal  of  this  weird,  fantas- 
tic tale  (Archibald  Malmaison),  it  must  be  admitted  that  upon 
the  shoulders  of  Julian  Hawthorne  has  descended  the  mantle 
of  his  illustrious  father.  The  climax  is  bo  terrible,  and  so  dra- 
matic in  its  intensity,  that  it  is  impossible  to  class  it  with  any 
situation  of  modern  fiction." 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  io&  X2  Dey  St.,  N.  Y. 


NEW  NOVEL  BY  ROBERT    W.   HUME. 

"THE  BISTORT  OF  A  RECLUSE."     Price  $1.00.  In 

Press. 

Mr.  Hume  in  this  story  treats  of  some  of  the  practical  difiB- 
cnlties  in  solving  the  labor  and  other  social  problems.  It  is 
an  Interesting  and  most  Buggestivo  story. 


TWO  NEW  NOVELS   BY  IVAN    TUR- 
GENIEFF. 

"AN  UNFORTUNATE  WOMAN"  and  "ASSTA."  Both 
bound  in  one  volume.  Translated  direct  from  the  Kussian 
for  this  publication  by  Henry  Gersoni.  Price  75  cts.  In 
Press. 

WHAT  THE  CRITICS  THINK  OF  TURGENIEf  F. 
Renan  says:    "  No  man  has  been  as  much  as  he  the  incarna- 
tion of  a  whole  race." 

The  LiUrary  World,  London,  says:  "He  is  an  artist  of  the 
first  order.  His  style  is  bright,  picturesque,  intensely  human, 
and  irresistibly  fascinating." 

TTie  New  York  Tribune  says:  "  TurgeniefTs  characters  are 
vital;  they  suffer  with  a  pathos  that  irresistibly  touches  the 
reader  to  sympathy.  Those  who  would  write  in  the  same  vein 
get  merely  his  admirable  manner,  full  of  reserve,  of  self-re- 
straint, of  joyless  patience;  but  while  under  this  surfa'-e  with 
Turgenicfif  lie  trobbing  arteric-s  and  quivering  flesh,  his  imi- 
tators offer  nothing  more  than  lay  figures  in  whose  Xortunes 
it  is  impossible  to  take  any  lively  interest." 


FUNK&  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  io&  la  Dey  St,  N.Y. 


A  NEW  BOOK  B  V  JO  SI  AH  ALLEN'S  ' 
WIFE. 

•  •  S  WEET  CICEL  T  ;  or,  JOS  J  A  H  ALLEN  AS  A  POLITICIA  N. " 
Of  thrilling  interest.  Over  100  illustrations,  square  12ino, 
cloth,  $2.00. 

"Josiah  Allen's  Wife"  has  always  been  a  shrewd  observer 
of  human  nature  as  it  reveals  itself  in  the  round  of  homely, 
every-day  life,  and  the  keen  sarcasm  and  adroit  humor  with 
which  she  lays  bear  its  foibles,  its  weaknesses  and  its  grotesque 
outcroppings,  has  rarely,  if  ever,  been  equalled.  The  strong 
feature  of  all  Miss  HoUey's  humor  is  its  moral  tone. 

Editor  Union  Signal  says  :  "  Josiah  Allen's  Wife's  new  book 
'Sweet  Cicely  '  comes  from  the  very  depths  of  her  heart.  It 
Is  quaint,  humorous,  original.  She  strikes  hard  blows,  but 
with  a  velvet-gloved  hand." 

Miss  Rose  Elizabeth  Cleveland  says:  "My  former  experience 
with  Miss  Holley's  books  induces  me  to  expect  great  good  and 
great  enjoyment  in  her  new  book,  '  Sweet  Cicely.'" 

Miss  Francis  E.  Willard  says:  "  Modern  fiction  has  not  fur- 
nished a  more  thoroughly  individual  character  than  'Josiah 
Allen's  Wife.'  She  will  be  remembered,  honored,  laughed  and 
cried  over  when  the  purely  '  artistic  '  novelist  and  his  heroine 
have  passed  into  oblivion.  She  is  a  woman,  wit,  philanthro- 
pist and  statesman,  all  in  one,  and  I  projjhesy  that  'Sweet 
Cicely's '  gentle,  firm  hand  shall  lead  Josiah  Allen's  Wife  on- 
ward into  literary  immortality." 

Will  CcCrleton  says:  "  It  retains  all  the  peculiar  spicy  flavor 
of  her  former  works,  and  is  better  than  any  of  them,  because 
of  its  alternate  pathos  and  humor." 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS.  Publishers,  lo  &  12  Dey  St.,  N.  Y. 


J//SS  ROSE  ELIZABETH  CLEVELAND'S 
BOOK. 

'^GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY  AND    OTHER   STUDIES." 
Square,  12mo,  191  pp.,  $1.50;  Subscription  Edition,  with 
Portrait  of  AuthoroBS,  $2.00;  gilt,  $2.50. 
Contents. 


George  Eliot'8  Poetry. 
Reciprocity. 
Altruistic  Faith. 
Charlemagne. 
The  Monastery. 


Old  Rome  and  New  France. 

Studies   in   the  Middle  Ages; 

History. 
Chivalry. 
Juan  of  Arc. 


Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  says:  "  In  my  opinion  it  ia  a  book  of 
which  all  women  may  well  be  proud.  Far  from  anything 
weak  or  sentimental,  it  is  an  e.xpres8ion  of  vigorous  habits  of 
thought,  of  high  culture,  of  firm  princiijle  and  earnest  feeling, 
and,  in  short,  it  represents  the  American  woman  at  her  best.  I 
rejoice  to  think  that  tho  White  House  has  such  a  woman  at  its 
head." 

George  Pjrsons  Lathrop  says:  "  These  essays  are  valuable  for 
their  quality  of  insight  and  earnest  feeling.  I  am  greatly 
pleased  by  her  sincere  womanly  tone,  and  think  that  her  pre- 
sentation of  historical  episodes  is  calculated  to  arouse  the  im- 
agination and  imijress  readers  vividly." 

R.  H.  Stoddard,  in  the  New  York  World,  says:  "Miss  Cleve- 
land's ideals  are  high,  and  her  self-respect  is  great.  The  vol- 
ume shows  that  she  can  be  critical,  and  that  she  is  able  to 
form  an  independent  opinion." 

Charles  A.  Dana,  Editor  New  York  Sun,  says:  "  Miss  Cleve- 
land's Uterary  style  is  characterized  by  vigor  of  expression, 
abundance  of  imagery,  and  a  certain  rhythmic  quality  that 
makes  passages  hero  and  there  read  almost  like  blank  verse." 

Edna  Dean  Proctor  says:  "  Miss  Cleveland's  essay  on  George 
Eliot's  Poety  is  a  piquant,  far-reaching  criticism,  and  in  all 
her  pages  there  is  something  of  the  freshness  and  force  of  the 
north  wind." 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  10  &ia  Dey  St.,  N.  Y. 


ARCHIBALD  MALMAISON. 

A  New  Novel.  By  Julian  Hawthorne,  izmo,  paper,  15  cts.; 
cloth,  extra  paper,  75  cts. 

INDEPENDENT,  N.  Y.  "  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  can  choose  no 
better  compliment  upon  his  new  romance,  '  Archibald  Malmai- 
SO.N,'  than  the  assurance  that  he  has  at  last  put  forth  astory  which 
reads  as  if  the  manuscript,  written  in  his  father's  indecipherable 
handwriting  and  signed  '  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,'  had  lain  shut  into 
a  desk  for  twenty-five  years,  to  be  only  just  now  pulled  out  and 
printed.  It  is  a  masterful  romance  ;  short,  compressed,  terribly 
dramatic  in  its  important  situations,  based  upon  a  psychologic 
idea  as  weird  and  susceptible  of  startling  treatment  as  possible. 
It  is  a  book  to  be  read  through  in  two  hours,  but  to  dwell  in  the 
memory  forever.  The  employment  of  the  central  theme  and  the 
literary  conduct  of  the  plot  is  nearly  beyond  criticism." 

R.  H.  STODDARD.  IN  NEW  YORK  MAIL  AND  EXPRESS. 
"The  climax  is  so  terrible,  as  the  London  Times  has  pointed  out, 
and  so  dramatic  in  its  intensity,  that  it  is  impossible  to  class  it 
with  any  situation  of  modem  fiction.  .  .  Mr.  Hawthorne  is 
clearly  and  easily  the  first  of  living  romancers." 

THE  LONDON  TIMES.  "  After  perusal  of  this  weird,  fantastic 
tale  (Archibald  Malmaison),  it  must  be  admitted  that  upon  the 
shoulders  of  Julian  Hawthorne  has  descended  in  no  small  degree 
the  mantle  of  his  more  illustrious  father.  The  climax  is  so  terrible, 
and  so  dramatic  in  its  intensity,  that  it  is  impossible  to  class  it 
with  any  situation  of  modern  fiction.  There  is  much  psychologi- 
cal ingenuity  shown  in  some  of  the  more  subtle  touches  that  lend 
en  air  of  reality  to  this  wild  romance." 

THE  LONDON  GLOBE.  "  •  Archibald  Malmaison  '  is  one  of  the 
most  daring  attempts  to  set  the  wildest  fancy  masquerading  in  the 
cloak  of  science,  which  has  ever,  perhaps  been  made.  Mr.  Haw- 
thorne has  managed  to  combine  the  almost  perfect  construction  of 
a  typical  French  novelist,  with  a  more  than  tj^jically  German 
power  of  conception." 

THE  ACADEMY.  •'  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  a  more  powerful  imagin- 
ation than  any  contemporary  writer  of  fiction.  He  has  the  very 
uncommon  gift  of  taking  hold  of  the  reader's  attention  at  once, 
and  the  still  more  uncommon  gift  of  maintaining  his  grasp  when  it 
is  fijced." 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  10  &  12  Dey  St.,  N.  Y. 


LIBRARY  OF  RELIGIOUS   POETRY. 

A  COLLECTION   OF    THE   BEST  POEitS  OF  ALL  AGES 

AND  TOSXlUES.     Edited  by  Phillip  Schaff;  D.D.,   LL.D., 

and  Arthui*Gilman,  M.  A.  New  Edition.  Superbly  bound. 

Royal  8vo,  1.004  pp.,  cloth,  $6.00. 

FuU  Page  Steel  Engravings, 

John  Milton.  William  Cowper. 

llobert  .Suuthey.  Edmund  Spencer. 

J.  Gr.  Whittier.  Isaac  Watts. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow.  William  CuUen  Bryant. 

Henry  Kirk  White.  Dantn. 

William  Shakespeare.  Alfred  Tennyson. 

John  Ball,  D.D. :  "Itisjust,  discriminating  and  impartial 
in  its  selections.  Nowhere  else  can  one  find  in  a  volume  bo 
much  varied  wealth  of  dpvout  sentiment  and  imagery,  with 
enough  of  tJio  personal  in  brief  biographical  notes  and  good 
portraits,  to  aid  the  memory  and  imagination." 

J.  O.  Whittier :  "Thoroughness,  good  taste  and  sound  judg- 
ment  are  manifest  on  every  page." 

Noah  Porter,  Pres.  Yale  Co'lege  :  "  In  the  variety  and  good 
judgment  and  excellence  of  its  selections,  it  must  prove  a 
house  treasure  to  any  family." 

Mark  Hopk-ins,  D.D.,  LL.D.  :  "  The  selections  are  ample  and 
judicious,  and  the  arrangement  is  admirable.  I  know  of  noth- 
ing like  it  in  the  English  language." 

Prof.  Moses  Coit  TyU',  ITnio.  of  Wisconsin  :  "I  have  enjoyed 
this  work.  I  am  instantly  Impressed  by  the  catholicity  as 
well  as  the  delicacy  of  its  principles  of  selection." 

Thomas  R.  Pynchrtn,  D.D.,  ex-Pres.  Trinity  College  ;  "  It  is  ab- 
solutely essential  to  every  scholar,  and  cannot  but  have  a  most 
powerful  influence  in  cultivating  the  taste  and  purifying  the 
imagination." 


FUNK  &    WAGNALLS,  io-:2   Dey  St..  New  York. 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  RACHEL. 

A  New  Novel.  By  Edward  Everett  Hale.  i2mo,  paper,  25c.; 
c'.o  h.  Si. 

CHRISTIAN  UNION,  N.  Y.  "  Probably  no  American  has  a  more 
devoted  constituency  of  readers  than  Mr.  Edward  Everett  Hale, 
and  to  all  these  his  latest  s;ory,  '  1  he  Fortunes  of  Rachel,'  will 
bring  genuine  pleasure.  Mr.  Hale  is  emphatically  a  natural 
writer;  he  loves  to  interpret  common  things  and  to  deal  with  aver- 
age persons.  He  does  this  with  such  insight,  with  such  noble 
conception  of  life  and  of  his  work,  that  he  discovers  that  profound 
interest  which  belongs  to  the  humblest  as  truly  as  to  the  most 
brilliant  forms  of  life.  .  .  .  'J  his  story  is  a  thoroughly  Ameri- 
can novel,  full  of  incident,  rich  in  strong  trails  of  character,  and 
fu.l  of  stimulatingthought;  it  is  wholesome  and  elevating." 

BOSTON  JOURNAL.  "  The  virtue  of  the  book  is  the  healthful, 
encouraging,  kindly  spirit  which  prevades  it,  and  which  will  help 
one  to  battle  with  adverse  circumstances,  as  indeed,  all  Mr.  Hale's 
stones  have  helped." 

NEW  YORK  JOURNAL  OF  COMMERCE.  "A  p'lre'y 
American  story,  original  all  through,  and  Rachel  is  one  of  the 
pleasantest  and  most  satisfactory  of  heroines.  She  is  a  girl  of  the 
soil,  unspoiled  by  foreign  travels  and  conventinnalites.  After 
surfeiting  on  romances  whose  scenes  are  laid  abroad,  it  is  delight- 
ful to  come  across  a  healthy  home  product  like  this." 

RUTHERFORD. 

A  New  Novel.     By  Edgar  Fawcett.    Author  rf" An  Ambitious 

Watnan,"  "A  Gentleman  of  Leisure,"  A  Hopeless  Case," 

"  Tinkling'  Cymbals,"   etc.     i2mo,  paper,  25  cts; 

cloth,  extra  paper,  $1.00. 

BOSTON  GLOBE.  "  Truly  Mr.  Fawcett  has  here  wrought  with 
skill  in  producing  some  original  and  beautiful  characters.  The 
motive  and  plan  are  those  of  a  better  book  than  he  has  ever  writ- 
ten. .  .  Rutherford  is  powerful  and  will  contribute  much  to 
the  reputation  of  its  clever  author." 

SAT.  EVENING  GAZETTE,  Boston.  "  This  story  evinces  grace 
as  well  as  facility  of  style,  is  effectively  told  throughout,  and  in 
its  plot  and  characters,  is  decidedly  interesting.  The  sympathies 
of  the  reader  are  keenly  enlisted  for  two  of  the  characters  who  have 
been  reduced  from  wealth  to  poverty,  and  the  relation  of  their  ex- 
periences in  the  latter  form  of  life  affords  opportunity  for  a  very 
effective  exhibition  of  this  phaje  of  New  York  experience.  3  he 
book  IS  one  of  the  most  elaborate  of  Mr.  Fawcett's  novels." 

NEli^  YORK  TRIBUNE.  "  Mr.  Fawcett's  story.  '  Rutherford,' 
is  more  serious  in  plan  than  most  of  his  society  novels;  it  has  a 
motive  which  is  not  only  tragical,  but  impressive.  .  .  .  It  is 
well  constructed,  and  contains  some  excellent  sketches  of  fashion- 
able life  and  touches  of  satire." 


FUNK  &  WAGN  ALLS,  Publishers,  xo  &  la  Dey  St.,  N.  Y. 


811.^.5     M648D 


3713J1 


